DEADLY LIE

ABSOLUTELY GRIPPING CRIME FICTION WITH UNPUTDOWNABLE MYSTERY AND SUSPENSE - DETECTIVE CARRIE BLAKE BOOK 4

COLE BAXTER

Illustrated by

NATASHA SNOW

Edited by

ELIZABETH A LANCE

Copyright © 2025 by Cole Baxter

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Natasha Snow

Edited by Elizabeth A Lance

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the authors’ imagination.

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ONE

GORDON LIGHT

Gordon Light sat down in his custom designed Italian leather armchair, looking out onto the view from his penthouse apartment in the luxury Eastern Yards high-rise condominium, watching the ferries and sailboats float by on the East River. It was an idyllic, peaceful view, one of the primary reasons Gordon decided to purchase the penthouse apartment. That and the twenty-foot high ceilings that his wife claimed would be the perfect space for her priceless Picassos and Rothkos.

But today, Gordon Light was not at peace.

"How may I direct your call today?" a pleasant robotic voice asked over the phone. Gordon held the speaker of his cellphone up to his mouth.

"I. Have. A. Problem."

He detested these new artificial intelligence bots that companies were using nowadays. For starters, not a single one could live up to the name "intelligent" — they didn't understand, didn't hear, or were programmed to misunderstand anything you said. Gone were the days of an actual human being on the other end of the line, one you could get a result out of if you demanded it. Someone whose job it was to help a customer, pay attention to their needs, maybe compliment them on their choice.

"I'm sorry, I cannot understand your question. Please speak clearly into the microphone."

"I. AM. HAVING. A. PROBLEM!" Gordon screamed into his handset. His face was going red, his watery grey eyes were starting to tear up and what little hair remained on his head was standing on end. No human being would dare speak to Gordon like this. He wanted to talk to a person. In fact, he wanted to talk to the person.

Gordon Light didn't think he needed a security system. The security at Eastern Yards was run by a private firm who had won some industry award for their discretion and secure practices. But he had met Matt Penske at an art auction with his wife, and Penske convinced him he needed the new Net Guardian system by Cybermart. Penske sold his wife on the added protection for her paintings, which in themselves were worth half of Gordon Light's fortune. Gordon loved the idea, he always wanted to upgrade his tech systems at home, constantly chasing the high of brand new innovations for home and work. If he had his way, his whole home would be wired up and controlled remotely, but his wife Becky would have none of that.

Penske even came by to oversee the installation, helping Light to customize the system to his needs. But that was a few months ago, when the Light's were still being courted by Net Guardian. Nowadays, Matt Penske had stopped taking his personal calls, and Gordon was having an impossible time getting help though the Net Guardian customer support channels. So much for the top-tier service he was paying for.

The businessman was shrinking into the shadows, unable to cope with Gordon's mild constructive criticism. All that tech-genius stuff had gone straight to his head and all of a sudden he couldn't handle the perfectly normal issues Gordon had, stuff that would likely plague any user of the system.

For example, the priceless Ming Dynasty porcelain vase that the drone had almost destroyed? He could have hired a cleaner for minimum wage and they'd know to avoid it, why couldn't this piece of state of the art technology do the same? He had seen the drone turn on a dime, but when it came to precious artwork it barreled right through.

Gordon had initially been impressed with the company — a billionaire founder who had his priorities straight, knew exactly how to treat a top customer like Gordon. Gordon could sometimes be a diva, his wife often complained about his finicky nature, so maybe Penske and the team at Net Guardian had tired of hearing his pearls of constructive criticism. Gordon couldn't understand why, no use pushing a product that still had bugs in it or was sub-par; it would only tarnish the reputation of the company.

First Gordon complained that the installed units didn't match his apartment's decor. Gordon's suggestion that the Net Guardian would be more successful if it came with more customization options was met with nothing but an eye roll.

Then he noticed that sometimes the cameras changed angles after he had re-set them. Now that was just a faulty product! How was Penske planning on selling the Net Guardian when it wouldn't even stay in place? Yet again, Penske dismissed Gordon's concerns stating that it was probably the sway from his high rise penthouse that was causing the cameras to drift.

The cameras stopped drifting, but then rooms that Gordon hadn't programmed to appear on camera started appearing to his security team. His bedroom and his office, both places where Gordon felt didn't need extra monitoring — especially during private time with the missus — kept showing up both on the live feed and in recordings. The cybersecurity team at his hedge fund noticed that when they would check the live feed, the cameras and drone would sometimes zoom in on Gordon's keyboard while he was working on sensitive financial documents — they had specifically asked him to turn it off multiple times.

His wife was also annoyed. She was an avid art collector and had noticed that recently she kept getting outbid by an anonymous bidder at auction. The bidder would swoop in, just as she was interested. It seemed they knew exactly what she would bid on and what her budget was — like they were doing their research over her shoulder. Gordon dismissed her concern at first — it wasn't a mystery that someone would outbid her on a Monet — but when her bids turned to young up-and-coming artists and she was still swept out, he wondered if the Net Guardian was also spying on his wife.

Now his wife, on vacation in Tulum, was receiving notifications that the Net Guardian was recording, even though Gordon was home and hadn't set the drone to record. When she messaged him screenshots of her notifications, Gordon checked the drone's live feed. Nothing appeared, the drone was, presumably, safe in its dock waiting for Gordon to come home from work. He sent his wife a message saying he'd deal with it, and then made sure the notification settings were off for her phone.

Gordon had finally had enough. Today, the drone went too far. He came home with the intent to reset his wife's notifications and check on new concerns that the IT division at his hedge fund had brought up. He came home, turned the corner in the hall, and noticed the drone wasn't in its dock. He knew exactly where it would be. Gordon burst into his office and there it was — hovering around the room as if it were looking for something. Gordon whistled at the drone — if it was going to act like a dumb guard dog, might as well treat it like one — and the flying robot turned on a dime and started chasing Gordon down the hall. Now he knew for sure — the drone didn't have a mind of its own, it was being controlled by someone, someone who had it in for Gordon.

Gordon ran through the house, straight to the small bathroom down the hall. He opened the window, breathing in what little fresh air he could before he started panicking. His panic turned to rage, and he resolved to get all these issues dealt with once and for all — and he wouldn't get off the phone until he did.

"I'm sorry sir, it seems we cannot understand your question. Goodbye."

There was a click from the other end of the line. Gordon was fuming, he rolled his eyes and threw the phone at the window. A bird going past seemed to think the thing was after it and swerved away.

Above his shoulder he could hear the drone hovering. What, did the thing expect to get treats now? The tin-can had a mind of its own and frankly, he didn't care that it was only the most exclusive clients who got access to the airborne miniature drones. It clearly had problems, both major and minor. He couldn't seem to get it to stop beeping when he was in his office, and he didn't know why. Not only that, but it seemed to be causing an echo whenever he was on a phone call.

Gordon couldn't decide if the drone was more like a flying robot-vac or a bizarre little guard dog. The two together would be more effective than the drone he was sure of it. No matter how many times he reset the home base or told his security team to recalibrate the settings the cameras constantly had black-out moments or recorded when he turned them off. His security team got emails throughout the night and Gordon was being woken up at the whiff of smoke — he couldn't even light a cigar without the Net Guardian calling the fire department and automatically turning his television screens on to lung cancer documentaries.

"Listen Penske, if I had wanted an actual guard dog, I would've got something bigger than a chihuahua!" He had told the tech-billionaire when he came to recalibrate the system for the third time in the past week.

"Don't worry, Gord, this thing doesn't have a mind of its own — it needs someone telling it what to do," Penske had assured him.

But Gordon didn't think Penske was telling him the whole truth. Why else did the drone follow him around, and why was he finding recorded video when he had specifically turned the Net Guardian off?

Well, if Penske wasn't going to answer his calls, Gordon knew what to do. He went over to the window and picked up his phone from where he had thrown it.

@CyberPenz mistake after mistake, and now you won't even stand by your product? The new #NetGuardian ain't what it's cracked up to be. Maybe I can train it to roll over for a treat?

He knew that a social media post would get Penske's attention. Gordon sat back in his chair and waited for Penske to call. The view was perfect, not a cloud in the sky. Except for that bird that had started hovering right in his eye-line.

Just as Gordon realized that the thing in his eye-line looked a lot more like his puppy-dog drone than any bird he had ever seen, the bullet proof window of his penthouse apartment in the most exclusive building in all of Manhattan cracked and a single high-caliber bullet shot him, right between the eyes.

TWO

CARRIE

Detective Carrie Blake looked up from her desk and glared at her partner, Tom Elway. He was doing it again.

For the better part of the last six months, Carrie and Tom had played the part of a happily married couple, Cathy and Ted Belway, a clever combination of their last names — Blake and Elway. Over those six months, Tom had developed an annoying little habit. Who knows, maybe he'd always had this habit and Carrie had never noticed it before, but after five months working undercover, living under the same roof while also doing detective work together, Carrie had grown acutely aware of Tom's chewing.

It was loud, it was wet, and before every bite he took, Tom would sigh, smack his lips together and waggle his eyebrows as if saying to his food, 'I'm coming for ya.' Didn't matter whether he was eating cereal or a sandwich — Carrie had even heard him do it while at a dinner party! Tom chewed so loudly that Carrie could hear it from the basement evidence locker, and it made her skin crawl.

"Can you stop that?" Carrie asked, through gritted teeth.

"Stop what?" Tom answered, his mouth full of shawarma — another habit Carrie hadn't managed to break while playing his wife.

"The chewing, Tom, can you stop the chewing?"

"Carrie, for the last time, I have to chew. I'm not some kind of anaconda or whatever animal eats their prey whole."

Carrie blinked away the image of Tom as an anaconda.

"Well, can you chew any quieter?"

"Yeah, I'll just turn the volume lower on my natural processes, hold on —"

Tom started to do his volume dial bit, where he pulled on an earlobe while he talked, slowly getting quieter until he was silent. Carrie stood up, reached across their double desk, and grabbed his hand before he could even do it.

"Don't," she said, staring deeply into Tom's eyes, daring him to breathe his garlic breath in her face.

Tom gulped and suppressed a small cough. "Will do, dear," he said.

Carrie sat back down. Coworkers should never spend as much time as Carrie and Tom had spent together. They should never — ever — share a bed. Next time, Carrie would insist on twin beds if it was necessary that she and Tom share a room. Too many close calls. Too many nights talking about the case and their families until it was practically morning. Too many nights where all they wanted to do was celebrate the latest breakthrough in the Poisoned-Blood Murders. Too many nights where Tom started to look really good with his undercover beard. One too many times when Tom was actually funny.

Carrie Blake was an undeniably brilliant detective. She made detective at 26, young, even for someone with a family of law enforcement officers. Her father was a military man, and her elder brother Carl Blake was a legend at the NYPD with twenty years of dutiful service who went on to join the FBI after a bit of trouble with his former partner. She had many siblings, among them FBI agents and at least one Secret Service agent. She had a degree from John Jay and passed the police academy with flying colors. Cool under pressure, hard-working, and lackadaisical she was always hard on herself but always proved wrong anyone who questioned her petite frame. As a woman in the NYPD she was constantly having to prove herself and sometimes the criticism came from those closest to her. Her father, Marcus Blake, always seemed a bit sour when she showed up her brothers, and her Police ChiefChief Gary Culbertson, seemed confused when she was the one at the top of the arrests board. No matter, she had her elder brother Carl Blake to encourage her.

Her partner, Tom Elway, on the other hand was her absolute opposite. Tall where she was petite, messy and casual while Carrie was neatly dressed and almost neurotic about her space, and clumsy where Carrie was a college athlete. Tom was the department troublemaker, who kept his job thanks to his results and skating by the rules. Their ChiefChief put them together hoping Carrie would rub off on Tom, but Carrie doubted that would ever be possible. Tom grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, the son of a con man who was spending the rest of his life behind bars, thanks to a failed fraud scheme involving one of New York's wealthiest widows. He barely graduated from college but did well enough at the academy and was well liked by everyone except those who had to answer to his messes.

They were the ideal married couple. Imagine any sitcom husband and wife team, where the wife was constantly asking her husband to take out the trash or picking up after his dirty laundry, and you'd get a glimpse into what went on when Carrie and Tom were undercover as Kathy and Ted Belway. Though somehow when they put their heads together, magic happened. Each complimented and filled in the gaps in the other's personality or knowledge gap. That was the formula that led to their arrests. They cared for each other, sure, but Carrie knew that had nothing to do with it. Tom was tall and ruggedly handsome — when she was Kathy Belway all the neighborhood wives were jealous of her picture-perfect marriage to the block's "hot hubby". The thought of it made Carrie's heart race, and she was never sure if it was her frustration with Tom, or something else.

"Carrie… Carrie?" Tom's voice broke Carrie out of her reverie. "Ground control to Detective Carrie Blake, commencing paperwork, engines on."

"What? Excuse you, it's your turn," Carrie looked down at the papers Tom had shoved on to her desk. "I just filed five months' worth of expense reports, I'm not doing your arrest records as well."

"Yes, but I filled out the evidence reports, transcribed my notes for you, and did a draft of the preliminary report. Not to mention the incident report from when you and Sharon Ancaster got into a screaming match on the lawn."

"She was measuring the grass with a ruler, Tom!" Carrie argued.

Sharon Ancaster wasted no time getting on Carrie's enemies list. The woman was the homeowner's association's defacto 'muscle' and had wasted zero time coming over to judge the couple's lawn height, among many other things.

"I'm aware of that, and I agree Sharon is the devil in pastel-colored chinos. However, you did get into with a civilian which means an incident report needed to be filed, which I have now done, so that means you have to file the arrest paperwork for Dr. Poison."

"You can't hold Sharon Ancaster against me — you hated her too!" Carrie slapped the arrest paperwork back at Tom, hitting him square in the chest.

"Yes, I did. But I didn't tear a handful of grass out of the lawn and throw it at her 'fresh blonde,' did I?" Tom smugly peeled Carrie's hands away and presented the pages back to her.

"No, you didn't. However, I am definitely not the one who almost botched the whole arrest of Dr. Pointelle by accidentally reading his Miranda Rights to Dr. Poison." Carrie smiled, knowing deep down that she was about to win this little spar.

"Hey, I maybe stumbled over my words, but that was hardly a botched arrest. Meanwhile, you could've blown our cover since Sharon Ancaster had called the police like she said she would. You should be thanking me for pulling you off her when I did!"

"Oh please, Tom, I was handling the situation just fine. You just enjoyed how much that out-of-control Karen drooled over you!"

"Oooh, looks like the happy couple are having a little spat." Detective Spade called out from the next desk over.

Carrie suddenly realized she was standing very close to Tom. She could smell the garlic on his breath and had a sudden urge to clean the stain off his wrinkled shirt. Tom also seemed to be broken out of some reverie because he quickly stepped away, mumbling something about how he couldn't pronounce French words and needed to go to the evidence locker to check something.

Detective Spade laughed. "Y'know it's funny, my wife also hates my chewing. We almost went to therapy over it."

Carrie gave Detective Spade her patented death stare, before heading off to the kitchen. She needed a tea or maybe some hot water with lemon, something to bring her temper down before she went back to filing all the paperwork for the Poisoned Blood case. Tom managed to ruin her favorite thing, paperwork, with his sarcasm and laziness. Carrie was sick of being the one to clean up after Tom at home, and now she was having to clean up after him at work, and while that used to be okay, was it so hard to ask for Tom to do something for her every once in a while?

"Wow. We really do act like a married couple." Carrie froze in front of the office kettle, wondering how she got here. When she was a kid, she swore she would never become one of those policeman's wives. Growing up, she watched her mom, aunts, and their friends worrying at home while washing and cleaning up after their husbands. Whether it was FBI or NYPD, it was always the same. The woman at home, worrying herself sick, and the husband off on a case, barely able to take care of himself. Carrie wanted to be like her dad, and later her brothers, solving case after case. Her brother Chris had set out to persuade her to join the Secret Service, promising her that the job was just as thrilling as it was stable — if you count 'thrilling' as running a casual 10K alongside the president — but Carrie had her eyes set on an NYPD detective's badge. Since joining the force, she had truly made a name for herself, and her latest case with Tom had solidified her stellar reputation on the force.

Maybe that was why she had been feeling so annoyed being considered the 'wife' in her partnership with Tom. Carrie wasn't a wife, she was a cop. Her job wasn't to clean up after her 'husband' Tom, or step back while he took all the glory with none of the grunt work. There was no way Carrie was going to clean up after Tom's arrest mess, and Detective Spade was way out of line making a crack like that! She threw her lemon slice into her mug of scalding water, grabbed it, and started marching back to her desk, ready to give Spade and Elway a piece of her mind.

Carrie reached her desk at the same time as her boss, Police ChiefChief Gary Culbertson. Depending on whom you asked, Gary was either an absolute legend or a total dinosaur of the NYPD. Carrie usually thought of him as a dinosaur.

"Where's Tom?" Culbertson asked Carrie's pencil holder.

"Don't know, sir. He muttered something about the evidence locker?" Carrie responded.

Culbertson grunted, his face grimacing at the discarded shawarma on Tom's desk.

"Well find him and come to my office. You two have another case."

"Sir, whatever it is, I'm sure I'm capable of handling it myself." Carrie hoped she could somehow mentally convey that she needed a break from Tom's cavalier attitude toward protocol.

"Trust me, Blake, this time you can't."

THREE

TOM

Tom stopped in front of the door, wiped his shirt and quickly checked his breath — garlic free, very nice. He had come back to his desk after walking all the way to the evidence locker and realizing he had no reason to be there and seen a yellow post-it note that just said, 'Culbertson's office. Now.' At first, Tom was confused, Culbertson had said he'd be out for the afternoon, and the Chief wasn't in the habit of leaving Tom mystery notes on his desk. Carrie, however, often left him notes like that. When they were undercover together, Tom started having nightmares about Post-It notes burying him alive. So based on the evidence provided: Carrie needed him, in Culbertson's office, presumably alone.

Tom took a deep breath and opened the door — to Culbertson sitting behind his desk with his arms crossed, his face approximately the shade of a freshly boiled lobster. Not a great sign for Tom.

"Sorry sir, I wasn't aware of this meeting," Tom gave Carrie the side eye. She could have at least come find him in the evidence locker, rather than just wait for him to see the note. "I came as soon as I saw⁠—"

"Doesn't matter, Elway, you're here now. Glad you could find the time to join us."

Tom resisted defending himself, he knew it would be useless on Culbertson, who never liked Tom in the first place. Better to let Carrie lead the meeting and dazzle the Chief with her detective skills. Tom never understood why Culbertson was constantly surprised by her, did he not realize that Carrie was smarter than the whole department put together? After this, many years it should be obvious to everyone, but it always seemed to Tom he was the only one who didn't think Carrie was some kind of department unicorn.

"Are either of you familiar with Gordon Light?" Culbertson asked.

"The social media hedge fund guy?" Tom answered.

"He's not a social media guy, he managed one of the highest performing hedge funds in the country —" Culbertson looked like he was about to blow, so Tom tried to pedal back.

"He's not — sorry, sir, let me explain. He is notorious on social media for his rants. The guy complains about everything. He wrote a post last week complaining that the New York City Parks Department had stopped planting American Elms, and the new trees were 'cheap,' according to him." Tom looked around the room.

Carrie and Culbertson looked lost. Soon, Tom would have to explain what 'going viral' meant, and why Gordon Light had frequently been turned into an internet meme. Then, for what would be the thousandth time, he'd have to explain what an internet meme was. Carrie and Culbertson were not the audience for internet culture, as far as they were concerned, if it didn't happen in the department, it may as well not have happened at all.

"He was supposed to be America's next Rockefeller," Culbertson continued, as if Tom had never even said anything, "I'm afraid his social media presence wasn't noted on his death certificate."

Tom was shocked — Gordon Light, dead? The man was short and balding but not exactly on the brink of death. Tom resisted the urge to check his phone — Twitter must be going absolutely insane right now. It must have been foul play, why else would he and Carrie have been pulled in here?

"What happened?" Carrie asked.

"We don't know," Culbertson answered.

Tom waited for him to continue, but Culbertson just stared at the thin file on his desk. Tom glanced at Carrie, who shrugged. She was just as confused as he was. Culbertson was rarely at a loss for words.

"Um… Sir?" Carrie asked.

"Sorry, it's just… I'm stumped. According to the building's security report, the man was shot in his penthouse apartment from outside."

"Outside!" Tom and Carrie exclaimed.

"Doesn't he live in Eastern Yards? The luxury condo building?" Tom could feel Carrie's eyes boring into the side of his head. For once, all that time he 'wasted' on his phone was coming in handy, and he knew it must be burning her up.

"Yes, he does," Culbertson confirmed. "Or he did. The building has a pretty tight security system, and they drew up a report, CSI is on the way over now to do their own examination of the scene. Security thinks the killer must have used some repelling gear to come down off the roof, but they claim there is no residue on the glass."

"Hitman disguised as a window washer?" Carrie asked.

Culbertson shook his head. "The window washing cage is out of order — something about the pulley system being rusted over — so it was unusable."

"The place must be a mess," Tom said. But Culbertson shook his head again.

"Clean shot, right between the eyes, from a moderately close range. He had to have been looking at his killer right in the eye."

"And we're sure no one was in the apartment?" Asked Carrie.

"According to security, Light's wife was at a resort in Tulum, and Light didn't have any visitors. The building uses biometrics to track all comings and goings, but no one had gone up to the penthouse that day, except Gordon Light himself."

"What, did Spider-Man shoot this guy?" Tom scoffed.

There's only so many ways you can shoot a man in his penthouse apartment. Culbertson looked Tom deep in the eyes. Tom froze, ready to be lectured and reprimanded.

"Maybe."

Culbertson turned in his chair, and Tom slowly turned his head to face Carrie. "What the hell?" she mouthed at him.

Tom shook his head and shrugged. He made a joke, and for some reason Culbertson took him… seriously? Tom didn't live in a comic-book universe and even if he did, Spider-Man never carried any weapons. Beyond that, he would have had to have perfect aim, as well as calculating the trajectory to make sure the bullet entered the window at the right angle and hit his target, rather than the coffee table or the wall behind him. While Tom was trying to calculate how you would swing from the roof of the Eastern Yards condo building and shoot a target, Carrie cleared her throat and asked Culbertson for more clarification.

"Did the killer use some kind of suction system on the windows? Or perhaps a sniper from another building?"

"No, and no," Culbertson spun back around to face the detectives, "Light's view was directly on to the East River and there was no sign of suction cups being used. No residue and the only entry in the window is from the bullet. A single clean shot, zero cracks, no signs of the glass being cut to accommodate the barrel of a gun — but there also isn't any residue from a gun being fired at close range. This shot came out of nowhere and killed one of the most successful finance moguls in the country. It's your job to find where that bullet came from, and who pulled the trigger."

Culbertson handed the file over to Carrie and turned back toward the window.

Just as well, Tom was still lost in thought, going down the list of superheroes who could possibly have killed Gordon Light.

"I suggest you two get down there as soon as you can." Culbertson nodded his head and dismissed the two detectives, who gave him a small salute before leaving.

Tom and Carrie sat down at their desks, each lost in thought, Carrie with her nose deep in the thin file and Tom deep on the trending page of Twitter. Gordon Light was trending with posts memorializing his prowess in the finance world and laughing at his most ridiculous public complaints. Social media acts faster than the NYPD, and news of suspected foul play was already out there. Tom turned off his phone and sat next to Carrie, taking a look at what information they had.

"Honestly, Tom, your Spider-Man theory seems the most realistic at this point. Unless someone flew in or hired a bird with a gun," Carrie said.

Tom kept looking over the file. "I just don't believe there was no residue at all on any of the windows. We'll have to check that with CSI," Tom said.

Carrie pulled open her laptop. She took a look at the Eastern Yards luxury condominium website, reading it out loud, "Concierge service, industry-leading security, full-service athletic center, pool complete with dry and wet sauna, pet-washing room with on-demand grooming services… this was not an average condo building."

"Not at all, some of the apartments in this building sold for over eight figures." Tom shrugged away Carrie's shock. "There has got to be something else to this. It seems so random."

"Random?" Carrie rolled her eyes. "He's a billionaire, Tom, if this wasn't a robbery gone haywire, it's probably a pissed off client. And if it's neither of those things, then he was most likely in over his head with some shady business. What we have to do now is figure out where that bullet came from."

"Carrie, I don't think you understand," said Tom, "this guy wasn't just a billionaire and this building isn't just a condo. This guy was evil-villain rich with the attitude of a crotchety old man complaining about how the price of a New York slice has gone up thirty cents. His condo was practically a fortress, a castle on a hill. Frankly, I'm surprised the NYPD even laid eyes on this case."

"Why is that?"

"If you had that much money — that many secrets — who would you rather deal with it? The NYPD who can barely keep a lid on its own staff, or a private security firm that most people don't know even exists?"

"Obviously, I'd rather the NYPD."

Tom shook his head at Carrie's naive loyalty. I guess that's what happened when you grew up running around a precinct like she did.

"Carrie, guys like this don't live in our world. That's what made Gordon Light so eccentric — that he still cared enough to complain about the number of garbage cans on New York City sidewalks. They play by their own rules, and one of those rules is sweeping problems under the rug. The fact that the NYPD even knows about his murder without a file as large as the evidence locker to explain it away… either someone at that 'industry-leading security company' messed up, or someone wants to make this murder public."

"Tom, you need a girlfriend," Carrie said, closing her laptop.

"No, you need to join us in the twenty-first century," he replied, suddenly very aware of the smell of Carrie's shampoo. "This isn't going to be the open-and-shut case you're picturing, Blake. Rich people — and I mean the one percent — don't want us normal people poking round. And yes, as an officer of the law, you are a normal person, and you are way beneath them. I'm guessing Light's family isn't going to be happy when we show up on the scene, and they won't be as cooperative as you think."

"Well," said Carrie, "that's what subpoenas are for." She stood up and strode past Tom. When she reached the elevator, Carrie turned around. "You coming? Or are you planning on solving this using your Twitter feed?"

Tom jumped up, grabbed his jacket, and jogged over to Carrie. This case wasn't going to be easy, but Tom never liked easy anyway. Besides, when would he ever get the chance to see inside Eastern Yards again?

FOUR

CARRIE

“Maybe it really was Spider-Man."

Carrie jumped; she hadn't realized Tom was standing next to her. Carrie was lost in thought, staring at a tiny bullet hole in an enormous window. Gordon Light's apartment lived up to its owner's name — it was full of light, all right. The penthouse suite's largest living room — and it had multiple — had floor to ceiling windows that were fifteen feet high, with an east-facing view.

Perfect if you were an early riser like Carrie — or a workaholic finance mogul like Gordon Light. What struck Carrie was how perfect this bullet hole was. Not a single crack, no gunshot residue, nothing to make it look like it wasn't any more than an eccentric design choice.

"Honestly," she replied, "it's looking more and more like it was."

When Carrie and Tom stepped out of the elevator to the penthouse floor of Eastern Yards, they were greeted by a CSI team and a very intimidating security guard, in the middle of a confrontation.

"What's going on here?" Carrie demanded.

"They've locked us out of the apartment in the middle of an investigation!" Ned Bryant, the department's top forensic specialist, exclaimed. "I came back from my van and this goon was standing here!"

"Pardon me, sir, I'm not some 'goon'. I'm the head of building security and until we are able to conduct our own investigation I'm afraid I must insist that I cannot let you in."

Carrie almost smiled — very good manners for a so-called security goon.

"No doubt you'll be getting rid of precious evidence in the meantime!"

Carrie stepped between Bryant and the Head of Security, trying to ignore Tom's smug face. He had spent the car ride up to Eastern Yards spouting what sounded like conspiracy theories about how the one-percent lived by their own rules and that Carrie's precious NYPD badge would likely mean nothing in that condo. Carrie desperately didn't want to hear his I-told-you-so rant.

"I'm sure we can sort this out," Carrie searched for a name tag — didn't all building security guy wear name tag? Judging from the all-black wardrobe and zero identification, there was more to this building security than Carrie had thought. "You don't want to be found guilty of obstructing an investigation, do you?"

"We aren't obstructing anything, Miss, the building has a right to conduct its own analysis of the premises before we allow anyone in. It's standard procedure for us. Once we're done, we'll be happy to pass our files along to you." Head of Security was not here to play.

Out of the corner of her eye Carrie saw Tom cross his arms and lean against the wall — but no, she could deal with this on her own. If this guy was a stickler for procedure, well so was she.

"I can appreciate that you have a procedure, but so does the NYPD. The second you turned your initial file over to us, when you first called to initiate an investigation, you also turned over jurisdiction, and passed along the right to follow your own 'procedure', however legitimate it may be," she said.

"Yeah!" chimed in Bryant.

Carrie continued, ignoring his cheers. "So it seems we have limited options here. Either you can let us in, and allow my colleague to follow NYPD procedure, and help us in any way we may need; or I can call your boss and let him know that you messed up by calling the NYPD in the first place, and we'll be pressing charges against you as well as your firm for obstruction of justice." Carrie stepped back and put her hands on her hips, subtly revealing her badge and gun while doing so.

The Head of Security did not budge.

"Go ahead, lady," he said, crossing his arms, daring Carrie to pick up her phone.

Lady! Who does this guy think he is? Carrie stared him down, gave him her patented withering stare that had reduced many a seasoned cop to tears.

Head of Security just smiled. The two of them stood there, staring at each other, Carrie attempting to formulate a plan in her mind. She could call the D.A, get an expedited subpoena down here; or perhaps a search warrant for the apartment. Can you even get a search warrant for a crime scene? And would the subpoena be for the Head of Security or for the door? Can you subpoena an inanimate object?

After an awkward and silent couple of minutes, Tom came over to reason with both of them.

"Listen we're all reasonable people, right? I'm not going to have to pull you two off of each other, am I?" he asked.

Carrie and Head of Security didn't take their eyes off of each other.

Tom took a deep breath and turned toward the security guard. "I'm sure your investigators know exactly what they're doing, they've dealt with homicides in their time, right?" Tom asked patiently.

Head of Security blinked, his facade starting to crack.

"Great, well I do smell something coming from inside the apartment, Carrie do you smell something?" Tom pointedly asked her.

She had no idea what he was talking about.

"Yeah, you do smell something, I can see it in your eyes. I mean it could be the dead corpse slowly rotting in there."

Carrie could see that got Head of Security. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who would want to be stuck in a room with a decomposing anything.

"It could be the gas, we'd need to get the fire department here for that and there's no missing those guys," Tom continued, "they'll show up to the place by the truckload and you couldn't keep the headline off the front page of the New York Post. 'Luxury building gas leak' — I mean what kind of security detail would ignore the smell of a gas leak?"

Tom could really sell water to fish if he wanted to. Head of Security was really starting to weigh his options.

"I don't smell anything," he said.

"That's not a good sign," countered Tom.

Carrie was speechless. There was no gas leak, she could tell. She wanted to say something but Tom shot her a look that silenced her. It was a total breach of procedure, a breach of ethics really. The whole search could get thrown out of court if Tom continued down this path.

"We could just wait for a subpoena," she said, trying to convince Tom that what he was doing was a very bad idea. Somehow that got Head of Security's attention, "but I guess that would give the body more time to decompose."

"We'll just wait for your investigators to get here. If they've dealt with homicides they've definitely dealt with slowly decomposing bodies," Tom slid in, egging Head of Security on.

His face was starting to look a little bit green — maybe the company had dealt with dead bodies, but this guy certainly had not. Carrie was getting excited she knew they were right on the edge.

"You can also just let our CSI team in there, and they'll clean the body right up!"

Head of Security snapped back to meet Carrie's gaze. That was the wrong thing to say.

"Nice try, guys, but no dice. Until I get the okay from immediate family or my investigation team arrives here, you're not going in." Head of Security resumed his previous position outside the door. Carrie tried not to let her disappointment show — she was never really good at the salesperson pitch.

Just as Bryant was about to start screaming at the Head of Security again, the penthouse elevator doors opened to the building's concierge leading a distraught woman into the hallway. She was dressed head to toe in designer clothing, all in black, and the concierge was dragging along a large designer suitcase.

"What are all of you people doing outside my apartment?"

"Ma'am," Carrie approached her delicately, "was your husband Gordon Light?" "Obviously he is, what does that have to do with anything?"

The entire hallway got extremely quiet. Perhaps Mrs. Light hadn't yet heard of her husband's death.

"Mrs. Light, I-I'm sorry to say this but⁠—"

"I know he's dead. I just wanted to get back home and have a bath before I have to deal with everything," Mrs. Light cut Carrie off and stormed over to the door, "I'm assuming the investigation is over and I can go home?"

Bryant stepped in, ready to save the day. "Actually, Mrs. Light, we've been hoping to get started. I'm with the NYPD's Crime Scene Investigation unit, and these are Detectives Carrie Blake and Tom Elway. Unfortunately we seem to have been stopped by your security who wants to conduct their own investigation, but their team is having a hard time getting down here on time." Bryant grinned, as did Carrie and Tom. They all knew a woman like Mrs. Light wouldn't want to wait a second longer to have her grieving bath.

Mrs. Light turned directly to the Head of Security. "I don't care who conducts the investigation. Obviously my little Gordo was brutally murdered by some envious businessman, and I want this investigation to be as public as possible. Let the NYPD do their job, so I can go home!" she said angrily.

What better way to get through the door than an angry, wealthy woman who was ready to bang it down. Tom walked over to Mrs. Light who was now crying. He whispered something — probably something excruciatingly charming, thought Carrie — to Mrs. Light, who handed him her key. Tom tossed the key over to Carrie, and gently led Mrs. Light back to the concierge. Carrie smiled at the Head of Security, danced around him, and opened the door. Bryant practically ran through the door, calling out directions to his team, while Carrie looked back at Tom.

"I convinced her to stay downstairs in the condo's guest suite for now, rather than go to a hotel. Figured it might be easier to get a statement from her before she escapes into a steam room or something." Tom shook his head.

Carrie admired how easy he was with Mrs. Light. She definitely would have put her foot in her mouth but Tom had a gift of making people feel comfortable and want to open up. It was an incredible skill for a detective.

"I'm just glad we didn't have to start pumping fake carbon monoxide through the apartment — what were you thinking?" Carrie's admiration turned to admonishing Tom in a heartbeat. "We could have had the whole case thrown out for something like that!"

"Carrie we were attempting to enter a crime scene, not trying to catch a suspect on the toilet. How else were you planning on getting past that Head of Security, before your knight in shining Chanel came to your rescue?"

"Can't you do something by the book for once? If he hadn't let us in, we'd just get a subpoena, or comb through their so-called investigation later."

"Oh, and try to cobble together a case from whatever they didn't throw away? Not a chance. Listen, Carrie, sometimes you have to step outside the line a little bit in order to get results. I saw an opportunity and I took it, and y'know what? At the end of the day the victim's wife arrived just in time so it doesn't even matter. Now please, I think we have more important stuff to get to in this apartment." Tom whipped out his notebook and strode past Carrie.

Carrie took a deep breath. Tom might be charming but he was reckless, without her all his cases would end up overturned in court. The thought of it made Carrie's throat want to close up. She pulled out her notebook and started walking around, looking for some clue as to why anyone would want Gordon Light dead — and how they did it.

Carrie and Tom went back to the hole, hoping it would give them the answer they were looking for. Carrie broke out of their staring contest first. "Right, well, let's review what we know."

Tom stepped back from the window. "The bullet entered the window here, approximately eight feet higher than the floor of Gordon Light's apartment," he traced the path the bullet took, "it nailed Light in the forehead directly in front of the window here," Tom said, stopping at a leather armchair. "That is where the bullet killed him. There is no residue on the glass from any type of suction device, nor is there any evidence of the perpetrators repelling down from the roof. Security claims no unknown persons had been let into the building prior to the shooting. There is also zero gunshot residue on the actual window, either on the outside or in the entry point. Since the balcony doesn't wrap around this way, this indicates that whomever — or whatever — shot Gordon Light was either floating or flying in the air outside his building.

"So. No new theories on your front?" Carrie asked, hoping Tom had come up with something.

"A bird?" Tom threw out the idea, hopefully.

Carrie slumped into one of the adjacent armchairs. This case was going to be harder than Carrie thought. There's nothing straightforward about a finance billionaire getting shot straight through the air at an angle the best snipers would have trouble with.

Tom looked up from his notebook. "I'm gonna go check in with the wife. She was away on vacation, maybe she had something to hide." He gave Carrie a weak salute and left.

Carrie nodded after Tom and got up to circle the living room again. As she did so, she thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye — three red dots along the edge of the opposite wall, right where it met the ceiling. Was Carrie going insane? Had she stared into the bullet hole for so long that she started having an optical illusion?

Carrie whipped around, but the red dots were gone. She couldn't be sure, but she thought they went out just as she focused her attention on them, and lit up on another wall, again just under the ceiling. She walked over to the TV, pretending to be very interested in the dust on top, but focusing her attention on the reflective black screen. There it was again! Three red dots, blinking on, fairly close together, on the opposite wall right under the ceiling. It must be some kind of security system, maybe with a location-based sensor, trained to activate when anyone walked near the valuables in the room.

That made sense.

Well, it made more sense than a bird shooting a man, and that's where Carrie's bar was set right now. She started looking around the room for more evidence of a security system: a box, a location tracker, or a trip wire of some kind? She couldn't find anything in the living room, but if Gordon Light did have a security system, he would definitely keep the receipt. I mean, one does not become a leading financial mogul or trader or whatever he was and not keep receipts — right?

Carrie spun around, trying to remember where in this maze of an apartment she would find Gordon Light's office. She knew it was next to one of the living rooms, but she could not remember which one. Carrie guessed, turning left as she exited the room she was in. As she hurried through the apartment, Carrie tried to keep an eye high on the walls to see if she could catch a glimpse of whatever strange security mechanism was embedded in this fancy apartment. Eventually, after two wrong turns, she found Gordon's office. Carrie tried turning on the computer, which was obviously blocked by a password — maybe that was best left to the geniuses in the forensic tech department.

Gordon's desk was absolute chaos. Carrie had never seen so many charts, zeros, and dollar signs collected in one place. Nothing that looked like a receipt for a security company, though she did remember to look up what stock FIW was and put some of her savings in there. Carrie stopped to collect herself. What did she do when she received a bill?

Well, Carrie carefully paid it and kept the slip in an accordion file folder — but Carrie's desk didn't look like Gordon's, and she suspected they had very different philosophies about urgent mail. Gordon's desk looked more like Tom's — a chaotic pile that somehow Tom knew exactly how to navigate.

What did Tom do when he got a bill? Carrie tried to think back to when Tom had his mail addressed to the office. He often tore open an envelope, let the envelope fall to the floor and then once he'd glanced at the contents of the letter he would crumple it up and free-throw it into the trash can. Carrie smiled.

"Thanks Tom," she muttered, while diving into the little trash can beside Gordon Light's desk. There it was, crumpled in to a tight, angry ball — a bill from Cybermart Security Systems. On the darkened computer screen, she could see the red light blink off.

Carrie burst into the Eastern Yards condo guest suite looking for Tom, and she found him consoling Gordon Light's wife, Becky, on the couch. She was taking jagged deep breaths, guided by Tom, and from the looks of it she was squeezing the life out of his hand. Tom saw Carrie and a look of relief spread across his face.

"Um, Mrs. Light — Becky — I'm just going to step away for a second to talk with my partner, will you be okay?" Tom gently told the widow while he pried her hand off of his.

She nodded and closed her eyes, and Tom tiptoed away from her.

"Did you find something?" he whispered.

"No, but I think they have a security system in place, look." Carrie slammed the bill from Cybermart on Tom's chest. "There are cameras everywhere, it must have caught something!" Tom looked at the bill and his brow furrowed.

"Okay," he said, "let me take care of this." Tom took the bill and walked over to where Becky Light was sitting.

Carrie followed and sat across from them. Tom gave her a look that said, back off and she tried to look more relaxed. That wasn't easy for Carrie.

"Mrs. Light, can we ask you some questions about this?" Tom asked, showing her the bill.

"What is that?" she replied.

"It's a bill, for Cybermart Security Systems. Why would your husband need additional security beyond what was offered in your building?" Carrie asked.

Tom shot her a look.

"Why—where did you find that?" Becky answered, grabbing the bill away from Tom.

"I found it by your husband's desk. It was in the trash," Carrie answered.

Tom was being too soft; they still didn't know if maybe Becky Light was involved in her husband's death.

"Why on earth were you going through my husband's trash? What, do you think he was some sort of low-life criminal?" Becky was starting to get riled up.

Carrie had briefly forgotten the woman's attitude and was now regretting not allowing Tom to do this his way. He was the more charismatic one, not Carrie.

"Mrs. Light, I'm sure Detective Blake here was searching for clues that would help us find who did this. Sometimes clues jump out at us from odd places, but if we don't follow them, we may never get to the right answer. Now, when did your husband install this security system?"

Becky looked into Tom's comforting eyes and answered, "A couple of months ago. He said it was top of the line, even better than what the building has. We own a lot of art, you see."

"We're going to need to see those tapes." Carrie just didn't have as much patience as Tom, and she didn't want to give the wife time to erase anything now that they knew about the security videos.

"Excuse me?"

"What my colleague means to say," Tom tried to reel Becky back, "Is that it would be helpful for our investigation if we could see what is on there."

"I don't see why," said Becky, her eyes trained on Carrie, "we don't have the tapes on when we're at home."

"Well, I'm pretty sure it was recording when I was in your apartment."

"Perhaps that's a good thing, considering your habit of going through other people's trash," Becky countered.

Tom tried to interrupt, "Becky —"

"— Mrs. Light."

"Mrs. Light, please understand we don't ask for access like this lightly. We don't want to tread on your privacy, we only want to see if there's something on there that can help us find your husband's killer."

Carrie could hear Tom turning on the charm, it was mildly nauseating. They could just drag this woman down to the precinct for interrogation, the wife of a wealthy husband should be considered a prime suspect, after all.

"I understand, it's just that my husband was very particular about privacy and access. I doubt there will be anything on there, except live footage of our Picasso."

"That may very well be true. But if that live feed had the sound of a gunshot, that could help us more than you know."

"I don't know, Tom. I would need to consider what my husband would have wanted."

Carrie was getting tired of this. "I would think that your husband would want you to find his

killer."

"Not at the expense of his work. There is privileged financial information on the computers in this house. If you feel so free to go through our trash, how can I be sure you won't go through his work files as well?"

"You can be sure I will go through his work files, if I feel they contain information pertinent to our case."

Mrs. Light stood up. "Well if that's the case you'll have to find another way of finding the information you need. I think I'm finished with this little interview now."

"You can be sure we'll be requesting those files from Cybermart. If your husband — or you — have something to hide, we will find it."

"If you so much as sniff in that direction, I will bring you and your precinct down to the courthouse faster than you can say 'clue'. Now get out." Becky Light pointed toward the door.

Carrie got up in a huff and stormed out, Tom following quickly after her. When they got out into the hall, Tom passed Carrie and punched the elevator button.

"If you had just left it to me⁠—"

"If I had left it to you, we'd be there all day, and you would have left with her phone number, Tom. We don't need her permission. We can just request the files — did you forget you are the one wearing a badge in this situation?" Carrie knew she had screwed up — but she wasn't going to let Tom know it.

"Carrie, sometimes the badge isn't the way in. If she trusted us⁠—"

"Oh, come on, Tom. What trust? She was away in Tulum when her husband was shot and conveniently comes back the next day? Doesn't know anything about the security system? We should have been dragging her into an interrogation room, not charming her into a dinner chat."

"If that's how you feel, then you can be the one to call the DA's office."

Hours later, Carrie was still sitting at her desk with Gordon Light's Cybermart bill in front of her. She'd lost count of how long she'd been on hold. Everyone around her had already gone home, and the first few detectives on night shift were rolling in. Her phone buzzed; it was her brother Carl wondering where she was.

"Shit!" She had forgotten about their weekly coffee and cake night. Carl had recently taken a job with the FBI after his psychiatric leave from the NYPD that had turned a bit more permanent after he was drugged by his former partner. Every week he and Carrie went out to a little bakery that was open late, so they could chat. He thought she was asking her big brother for advice — but really Carrie just wanted to make sure he was doing okay.

She shot off a third urgent email to the DA, turned off her computer, and rushed out of the building. The bakery wasn't too far away, but Carrie grabbed a cab anyway just to get there that much faster. When she arrived, she saw her brother sitting in the window, a cup of coffee already on the table for her.

Carl Blake was a tall, burly man with an auburn buzzcut and a look of permanent exhaustion on his face. Carrie had looked up to him when they were growing up, as well as when she was rising the ranks in the NYPD. The past few years had not been kind to her brother. After divorcing his cheater of an ex-wife, he became emotionally dependent on his partner, Benny. When Benny was shot in the face by a criminal they had been investigating, Carl took him in — against the advice and knowledge of his Chief. Benny's personality completely changed, and he became obsessed with revenge against the man who shot him. Carl became a drugged up pawn and almost went to prison for crimes Benny forced him to commit. He had gotten psych treatment for his PTSD and depression, so things had turned around after a few long months and just recently Carl had gotten a job with the FBI.

Carrie resisted the urge to call the DA's office one more time and instead turned the notifications off on her phone and stepped into the bakery.

"Sorry I'm so late," she said.

"That's okay, I just texted because your coffee was getting cold. Want me to get you another one?" Carl asked.

"No need, I'll pretend it's an iced coffee," Carrie took a sip and resisted grimacing at the ice-cold brew, "mmm, icy." She smiled at Carl, wishing she could take some of his emotional burden. But they were two peas in a pod, Carri wouldn't know what to do with it.

"So, what's the case?" he asked.

"What? There's no case."

"Of course there is, you're only ever late if you're on a case. Spill the beans, little sis."

Carrie sighed. "Okay. There's this guy — have you heard of Gordon Light?"

"You mean the social-media hedge fund guy?"

Carrie looked at her brother with surprise. "Yeah, when did you become a Twitter nerd?"

Carl shrugged. "I had a lot of time on my hands previously, remember? He died, right?"

"Yeah, and we can't figure out how. He was shot but from outside of his penthouse apartment. And now, his wife is refusing to let us access their internal security system⁠—"

"Didn't they live in Eastern Yards? Couldn't you just go to building management?"

How did Carl also know about Eastern Yards? Was Carrie the only person in the world not addicted to her phone?

"The Lights had — have — another security system from Cybermart, one that was just for their apartment. I thought I saw it recording when we were investigating the scene today. The reason I was late is that I was trying to get the DA on the phone. The wife threatened to sue if we went to Cybermart without her permission, so I figured the DA could work their magic and get the files and video for us. Hopefully, that'll at least explain how Gordon Light got shot." Carrie stabbed her cake, causing crumbs to fly everywhere. She hadn't realized how worked up she was getting over this. If Becky Light had just given them access to the files, this wouldn't have been a problem. If Carrie hadn't interrupted Tom, thinking the procedural way was better and faster, they probably would have it by now.

"Good luck with that." Carl laughed and helped Carrie clean up some of the crumbs. "Penske will give you the runaround of your life. He hates answering lawyers. His legal team will drag their feet until you just give up entirely. Penske thinks he's above the law, of all the arrogant billionaires out there, he's the worst."

"I'm really sick of hearing that phrase, 'above the law'. No one is above the law."

"Tell that to Penske," scoffed Carl. "He lives in a world where no one would ever dare say no to him, with enough money and power to make any of his whims come true. It's no wonder he thinks he's above the law, when he has enough money to influence how those laws are made."

Carrie stared into her cold coffee. The Penske's and Light's of the world might think they were above the law, but Carrie was stubborn, and she was ready to show them that the law still applies, no matter how high you built your penthouse.

FIVE

TOM

Tom greeted the concierge and nodded at the security guard. He had been at Eastern Yards so often it was starting to seem like a normal apartment building.

He told Carrie he would be visiting the scene one last time — alone since things had been tense between Carrie and Becky since the day of the initial investigation. Tom had decided it might go more smoothly if he visited the apartment solo. So far Ned Bryant, Carrie and Tom's favorite member of the forensic team, hadn't been able to turn up much. He squashed Tom and Carrie's Spider-Man/Bird theory pretty quickly, confirming that the bullet used was a .44 caliber magnum. According to Ned, it was possible that the bullet was shot by a sniper who was in a helicopter and using a modified gun, so Carrie was going around to all of the helipads in Manhattan, trying to track down flight records for that day.

Tom's job today was to chat with Becky Light, to definitively scratch her off their list. Over the past week, Tom and Carrie had combed through Gordon's friends, clients, and acquaintances. Every person they met and interviewed said basically the same thing — Gordon had a brilliant financial mind, and he was annoying, but not annoying enough to kill him. Tom had taken extra time to look at Gordon's Twitter and follow up on any crazy threats, and none had panned out. The cover for today's chat was that Tom was passing by to pick up private messages that Becky Light printed out that seemed to threaten her husband. Tom had his doubts, but so far, all of their leads hadn't panned out, so he might as well humor Becky's idea — and maybe ask about her alibi while he was at it.

Tom was about to knock at the door when it swung open. "Security called to tell me you were here. I'm just printing the rest of the messages. Come on in." Becky Light greeted Tom with a tight smile. He had been able to charm her, but only just.

"This weather has been really horrible the past few days. It's too bad you had to cut short your trip." Tom offered some casual chit-chat to ease Becky's mind that he was actually here to solidify her alibi.

"Yes, I suppose it is inconvenient that my husband was murdered in the middle of a girl's trip. But I guess it could be worse. It could have been raining in Tulum," Becky deadpanned.

Tom realized that may have been a less than tactful approach. He could hear Carrie's voice in his head, "Maybe don't treat the husband's death as inconvenient until you know that she ordered a hit on him."

"Right, of course. I apologize, I didn't mean to trivialize the situation," he said.

"Thank you. I still can't really believe that Gordo is gone. I keep expecting him to burst out of his office all red-faced and storm into the kitchen for a snack." Becky looked off in the direction of the kitchen with a melancholic look on her face. If she had truly wanted her husband dead, her grieving widow performance was deserving of an Oscar.

"I can imagine this apartment seems very empty without him."

"Oh well, at least I have the Net Guardian system. For whatever good that has done me." Becky gestured to a device that looked like some kind of robot charging system. When she did, a small drone lifted out of the charging dock and hovered over to Becky and Tom, blinking red. It was like a gentle flying dog waiting for Becky to hand it a treat.

"Down," she said, and just like a dog the drone listened going back to its bed. "Honestly, I may just get rid of this system. Gordon liked everything to be the absolute latest. He always needed the newest update, the top of the line, most innovative… didn't do us much good in the end." Becky turned away from the Net Guardian drone and beckoned Tom to follow.

He did, turning back to see the drone's red light blinking at him.

They entered Gordon's office, where a small printer was speedily spitting out pages and pages of Twitter direct messages.

"I didn't realize he received so many… threats," Tom said, astounded.

"He didn't take them very seriously. There were a few that his firm investigated, but nothing came of them," Becky answered.

"It must have been difficult for you. I mean, I assume he wasn't a world-famous curmudgeon when you two were married?"

"No, but he did like to complain. What did I care? He gave me everything I wanted. I bought a Picasso, he complained online that Sotheby's had terrible customer service. But I still had the Picasso."

"With his life insurance, you're sure to be able to afford plenty more."

"Yes, won't that be nice."

Tom was awkwardly silent. This line of questioning wasn't going the way he expected. He was caught off guard by Becky's suddenly sullen demeanour. When the two detectives had first come to the scene, Becky had had so much energy, the shock of the homicide was coursing through her. Now, she seemed resigned to living alone in a huge apartment with nothing but Cybermart's Net Guardian drone to keep her company.

"Mrs. Light, I know this might seem uncomfortable, but I have to ask, did you and your husband get into any arguments before you left for Mexico?"

"No. No, we rarely argued. I think the last argument we had was about this stupid Cybermart Guardian system."

"Oh? Can you tell me more about that?" Tom resisted the urge to pull out his notebook — doing so might cause Becky to clam up again.

"I didn't think it was necessary to get the whole package, with the cameras and the drones. The building has a security service, and a camera trained on each of our precious artifacts would have been enough. But of course when Gordon met with Matt Penske himself," Becky rolled her eyes, "anything I said at that point was completely ignored. No matter that the system wasn't tested, he had to have it before anyone else did."

"You argued about the Cybermart system? Was it more expensive than you were expecting? More invasive?" Tom asked.

"Expensive? Detective, look around you. We live in a castle in the sky, money was not a problem. As for invasive… well, sometimes it is nice to feel you are actually alone when you are at home, alone." Becky gestured behind Tom, he turned around and saw that the small drone he had seen in the hallway was now hovering at the doorway.

"Wow, it really is like a guard dog," he said.

"Yes, any stranger who enters the apartment is immediately 'flagged' by the system."

"So your husband would have known if there was someone else in the apartment?"

"Yes. The drone would have registered a stranger and sent a notification to his phone, and my own."

"Did you receive any notifications that day?"

"No, actually I hadn't received any notifications in a few days. I mentioned it to Gordon, thinking he had disabled them while I was away on vacation, and he got upset. Said he would be getting Cybermart on the phone right away."

"So for a few days leading up to the murder, you were disconnected from the system?"

"Yes. I checked Gordon's phone after he died. It didn't look like there were any notifications

from the Net Guardian on there."

Tom was itching to call Carrie. If the Net Guardian system notified the user about any intruders, and Gordon Light hadn't been notified, then that indicated no one was inside the apartment that day. But if Becky's notifications had been silenced for a few days prior, then there was a possibility that whoever committed the murder had hacked into the system knowing that they were planning on breaking in.

"Do you mind if I step out to make a call?" Tom remembered seeing a window in one of the bathrooms. It faced the balcony, so it was one of a few windows that actually opened.

"Sure, I'll be here." Becky sat down and watched the printer continue to spit out pages.

Tom rushed out of the room and turned the corner to where he thought the bathroom was. There was a possibility the investigative team hadn't checked the bathroom, focusing instead on the windows near the living room where Gordon Light was shot. Tom reached a dead end — what kind of apartment has a dead end? He turned around and thought he saw the drone zoom out of sight.

Tom took a deep breath and got his bearings. He pictured in his mind where the balcony was

— opposite to the entryway, on the east-facing side of the building. He made his way through the maze of the penthouse apartment toward the bathroom. At one point he could have sworn he saw the blinking red light of the drone in a hallway mirror, just behind him. He got to the balcony-facing bathroom and took a look around, taking a few photos to send to Carrie later. Was it possible for someone to come through the window?

The window was pretty high, even for Tom. You'd need a ladder out on the balcony to get up there. And, of course, it was one of those safety windows that didn't open all the way. In order to get through the window, you'd have to basically have the bones of a cat, able to squeeze through any tight space at will. He could almost hear Carrie rolling her eyes, Tom should have thought of that.

He took a couple more photos and turned to leave. Tom opened the door and —

"What the hell!" He immediately slammed it shut again. That drone! It was hovering just outside the bathroom, like it was waiting for Tom. He took a couple of deep breaths, and slowly opened the door again. The drone was nowhere to be found. Tom looked down the hallway, up to the ceiling, but the coast was clear. Maybe he was imagining things. There's no way the drone was just silently following Tom through the apartment, was it?

He shook his head, making a mental note to stop listening to cyber-crime podcasts before bed, and made his way back to the office. He turned the corner and almost ran in to Becky Light carrying a small stack of paper.

"Oh! I figured you had lost your way," she said, smiling.

"I did, a couple of times, actually," Tom said, trying to smile back and act like he hadn't just been stalked by Becky's security drone.

"I have all the pages for you. It's a lot, I printed everything, even the threats that didn't seem as serious. Just in case." Becky started walking toward the door and Tom followed her. "I hope there's something you can use in there."

"Of course, um, yes. I mean, I'm sure there'll be something we can use." Tom felt confused. He was still feeling a bit jarred by his experience with the drone, still unsure whether or not the drone really was following him, and now Becky was rushing him out of her apartment. He didn't even get to finish asking her about Mexico. Tom shook his head.

"Before I go, can I just ask one thing — why didn't your husband accompany you on your vacation?"

"Well, Tom, my husband had a job," Becky said, as if it were obvious. "As much as I would love it if he could accompany me on every vacation, I also love living in a luxury penthouse apartment. Besides, even if he had come with me to Mexico, he'd probably spend the whole time in the hotel room complaining that he couldn't get a good enough Wi-Fi signal to follow the market in real time. Why would I — why would anyone, really, want to deal with that while on vacation?"

Tom blinked. It seemed obvious. Becky was the society wife, whose days were filled with brunches, lunches, and the casual Mexican holiday with the gals. But he couldn't shake the feeling that she had made her guard dog follow him around the apartment. Then again, most rich people didn't trust Tom. Whether it was because of his rough demeanour, or if they knew about his past.

"Goodbye, Tom." Becky smiled, ending their interview.

Tom smiled and walked to the elevator. He took one look back as the door closed, and he could have sworn he saw it. Becky's guard dog, its red light blinking from the top corner of the doorway, watching Tom as he waited for the elevator to bring him back down to reality.

SIX

CARRIE

“Please hold." Carrie slumped in her chair as the gentle sound of Muzak started to play. She put her phone on speaker and went back to her computer.

Carrie and Tom were at a dead end. There were no human witnesses to Gordon Light's murder; interviews with Becky Light had gone nowhere; none of Gordon Light's friends or enemies were suspicious enough to chase down; and searching through Light's direct messages on Twitter had sent them down a disturbing and unproductive path.

At this point, Carrie had spent most of her time on this case calling people and getting absolutely nowhere. She felt less like a detective and more like a secretary. She thought she might get somewhere with the helicopter sniper idea, but as it turned out, there were no flight records that showed helicopters flying through the area, and there were no reports of unusual airspace activity on that day or any days since. So, Carrie and Tom were back at square one, with no witnesses, no suspects, and no evidence to go on.

"Your call is important to us, please stay on the line."

Carrie sighed and brought up the Cybermart website again. She had used the website before, like everyone she knew. She liked that she could schedule deliveries of toilet paper and other household necessities, so she didn't have to find time to shop in the middle of a busy workday. The Net Guardian system was the latest in Cybermart's innovations. An ultra-secure security system that provided the main user, or their security teams, a live stream of their home. It could record or just passively keep watch, and the most exclusive, and expensive, subscriptions included mobile cameras that could fly around like miniature drones. It seemed like a strange system to Carrie — that this machine was constantly watching you in your home. When she brought this up, Tom poked fun at her for her old-fashioned, anti-tech tendencies, but after some research, she saw she was not the only one. Many people online were upset about the invasive nature of the Net Guardian, and how the company shared user details with law enforcement.

"Well," Carrie thought, "they can rest assured that Net Guardian doesn't give those details out lightly." She and Tom had been trying to get more details on Gordon Light's set up for days and were basically at a standstill. Carrie was on the website again trying to find some way to talk to an actual person, not an AI customer service menu, where no matter how slow, and clearly you spoke, you still couldn't get a straight answer.

"I'm starting to see why Gordon Light went off on Penske on social media," Tom said, looking up from his pile of direct messages. Tom was combing through them once again to see if somewhere there was some nut who might have wanted to kill Gordon Light.

"What do you mean?" Carrie asked.

"His last tweet, didn't you read it?" Carrie shook her head.

Tom sighed and read aloud from his notebook, "'@CyberPenz mistake after mistake, and now you won't even stand by your product? The new #NetGuardiansys ain't what it's cracked up to be. Maybe I can train it to roll over for a treat?"

"Agree," Carrie said as she heard a quiet click from her phone. The customer service line had, once again, unexpectedly disconnected. She had never needed to call Cybermart's customer service line, but she now understood why everyone she knew was always complaining about it. It was designed to be so confusing and frustrating that you just gave up rather than submit a complaint. Net Guardian seemed to be the next level. The website wasn't just confusing, it was intentionally built so that it was impossible to find an answer to your question. Every link had so many options, and each of those options bore so many more options, and eventually if you kept clicking, you just went back to the main FAQ page. Carrie tried it, and every single option — even when she just clicked links at random to see where they'd take her — brought her back to the main page.

Carrie started to dial the number again but stopped. She doubted she would get much farther than she already had by calling again. Carrie was a smart woman; she just wasn't as obsessed with technology as someone like Tom or Gordon Light. It shouldn't be this hard for a police officer to get someone from Net Guardian on the phone. The company didn't want to hear from their customers, from law enforcement, or anyone outside of Cybermart's head office. Tom had been looking at the responses to Net Guardian online and reading some of the funniest posts out loud to the detective pool.

"@CyberPenz is just three #NetGuardian drones in a trench coat."

"@CyberPenz @CyberNetGuard watching myself watch myself watch my #NetGuardian feed. #realitytv #realitybites."

"@CyberPenz #NetGuardian is so bad my guard dog had to teach it when to bark."

Not all of the jokes were winners, and not all of the posts were jokes. There were people who had serious issues with cameras capturing intimate moments at home, or streaming footage in rooms that had never been hooked up to the Net Guardian system. In one case, someone had their Net Guardian live stream released to their entire workforce, who ended up seeing their boss watching baseball in his underwear for eight hours. Carrie could not understand how leaks like that were happening all over the place, and yet a member of the NYPD was unable to get footage of an actual homicide that had presumably happened on-camera!

Carrie stared at her computer screen. There was a lot she couldn't do as a guest on the Net Guardian website. There was a thirty-day free trial, you could sign up to have one camera and return it after 30 days if you were unhappy with the system. Why not try? Maybe it would give her access to a part of the site she hadn't been able to view before. Some kind of customer-only section. If she knew what she was working with, she could at least give Becky Light some guidance on where to download this information, or even submit it to the DA as part of a subpoena.

Carrie scrolled down to the sign-up page. Easy enough: name, email, billing and shipping address.

Once she did that, she realized she had to verify her account by email. After about a half an hour, in which she stared at the top of Tom's head while on hold with Net Guardian, she received the verification email in her inbox. When she clicked on the verification email, it sent her to a page where she had to verify by phone. Didn't really make sense to Carrie, but she guessed it was an added security measure considering the site handled so much sensitive information. Another hour spent staring at Tom Elway's head.

"What are you looking at anyway? Am I growing a bald patch?" Tom had asked.

She finally received a call, but the call cut out at the last minute, and she only heard five of the six-number code for verification, so she had to start the process all over again — email verification, phone verification. Once she finally got the code over the phone, she had to re-enter all of her information; from her name and date of birth to her social security and billing information, and then it had to be verified again. First by email, then by phone, and then by mail. Carrie could expect a verification code as well as her membership plan to be confirmed tomorrow, via FedEx. Until then, she had access to a limited part of the site.

After clicking around for about an hour, Tom finally said, "Carrie, I get it, I haven't washed my hair in a few days. You can stop staring at it now."

Carrie rolled her eyes as she found a link that requested the verification code and membership confirmation in a browser. Not just any browser, it had to be Net Guardian's secure web browser, which you could only download if you were a confirmed member of Net Guardian. Ah-ha! A little more digging and Carrie found out that as a Cybermart member, she could use a special code generated by Cybermart's Authentication Application to download Net Guardian's browser. She went in to her Cybermart account, downloaded the Cybermart Authentication Application, and then registered her Net Guardian account request and once she did that, she had the code she needed to download the Net Guardian browser, and could find her membership confirmation and verification code. As she was confirming her membership, she had to decide which level of security she wanted for the camera — but Carrie didn't actually want a camera, she just wanted to be a Net Guardian member. Carrie kept clicking back to the Net Guardian website, but anytime she tried to look at the customer service section, she was prompted to select a level of security and camera set up.

"Augh!" Carrie cried out and slammed her computer shut, "This is impossible! They made this site an absolute nightmare to use and God forbid you have an issue you need to ask someone about — there's no one to ask, and nowhere to ask them!" Just about everyone in the detective pool looked up. It was unusual for Carrie to be the loud, complaining one. She looked around, took a deep breath, and opened her computer again — only for Tom to shut it for her.

"Maybe now is a good time to call the DA. You've tried hard enough; I think they'll get it," Tom said, gently, as if he knew that any sarcasm would be met with Carrie tearing his perfect hair off his perfect head, strand by strand.

"Sure," Carrie responded.

"And if you need to take a quick break before you do, I won't say no to a shawarma." Tom smiled, revealing the real reason he suggested Carrie get her nose out of her laptop.

This time, he had a point. Carrie grabbed her essentials and headed toward the elevator.

"Don't forget — garlic and hot sauce! Both sauces!" Tom cried after her.

Carrie dismissed him with a wave — as if she didn't know Tom's shawarma order by now. Just to spite him, she decided to take an extra couple of minutes and go to Tony's Shawarma Shop — a little bit farther and with "sub-par sauce," according to Tom. Carrie wanted a little extra time to talk to her brother. He'd be able to help her see the humor in all this.

"I told you so," Carl said when he answered the phone.

"You don't even know what I'm about to say, how do you know you 'told me so'?"

"You're calling during work hours. You only call during work hours if you're stuck on a case or if you're gonna be late for cake. We're not having cake tonight; therefore you must be stuck on a case. Right now, you're working that Gordon Light thing, and you were trying to get a subpoena for Net Guardian. I'm guessing, as I told you, you're having a hard time with Penske and the subpoena?" Carl sounded smug.

Carrie hated it when her big brother was right. "Well, you are wrong, big brother. I'm actually calling because the DA asked us to investigate the Net Guardian systems before subpoenaing them, and the Net Guardian site is impossible to navigate," Carrie complained.

"Oh, I could've told you that. I almost went ballistic trying to return a meditation and sleep sound machine I bought on there," Carl laughed, "the thing was so loud it woke my 'neighbor's dog."

Carrie laughed nervously — she hated it when her brother made jokes like that.

"Relax, I meant ballistic in the metaphorical sense."

She knew he could hear the tension on their phone call. "Well, what did you do?" Carrie asked.

"I kept the damn thing, used it as an alarm clock." Carl roared with laughter, in the background

Carrie could hear him fiddling with something and then the line was drowned in the loudest "gentle stream" ambient noise Carrie had ever heard. "Very relaxing! I think I might fall asleep on the street!" she yelled over the phone.

Her brother turned down the noise machine and asked what she thought the best course of action was.

"Well," she said, "at this point I think I just need to go to the DA. Obviously, the company has made it deliberately impossible to complain or gather any information from their website, at this point I need a subpoena of the files kept on Gordon Light's apartment if we want to get anywhere."

"And?" Carl prodded his younger sister.

"And in the meantime I'll start going over all of Light's potential online enemies and see if any of them have Net Guardian systems. Maybe they tried to hack into his cameras or something." The reason Carrie liked talking things through with her brother was that he had a brilliant detective's mind, which was why the FBI was quick to take him on.

"Both good ideas. The DA will do their thing and get back to you, and you can start to develop some leads beyond his wife and financial enemies. Think about it, this guy was notorious online, right? He probably made more enemies out of pimply dudes in their mom's basements than he did out of Wall Street billionaires he was helping make richer."

"True. Hey how's the job going?"

"Not bad, it's mostly desk work, you know, research and stuff, but overall, I'm enjoying it. And they work well with my therapy schedule, which is why I had today off and happened to be at home when you called."

"I'm so glad you've found something you love, Carl."

"Me too. Now about this case of yours…" Carl sounded like he was about to launch into a lecture about how he would do things, so Carrie quickly got him off the phone.

"Hey, I'm here, need to order and get back. Thanks for your help, Carl, can I count on you next week?"

"Same time, same slice!" He hung up.

Carrie walked into the shawarma shop and ordered food for her and Tom. She used the back of her receipt to make a quick to-do list.

Call the DA with the information they had. With no witnesses and no way of contacting Net Guardian, they would need a subpoena to access Gordon Light's security files.

Call the Eastern Yards security service, see if anyone had been skulking around looking for the Lights.

Help Tom out with those messages, she was way more organized and would probably get through the whole thing faster than he could.

Try to delete her newly created Net Guardian account, which had already sent her 10 notifications prompting her to select a security system.

When Carrie got back to the office, Tom was nowhere to be found. He'd left a note on her desk that just said "brb" in his messy script. Carrie rolled her eyes and replaced the remaining stack of messages with Tom's extra-saucy wrap. She called up the DA's office while munching on her own.

"DA's office."

"Hi, can I talk to ADA Winters? It's Carrie Blake from the NYPD."

"Please hold."

Carrie resisted the urge to scream. If she never heard a single note of Muzak again in her life, it would be too soon.

"ADA Winters speaking."

"Hey, it's Carrie Blake again."

"Carrie! What can I do for you?"

Carrie had a good relationship with DA Rachel Winters. Winters liked how thorough Carrie was with her paperwork, and Carrie appreciated working with another woman in law enforcement.

"Listen, I did what I could with the Net Guardian and I came up short. That website is — and I don't say this lightly — impossible to use. At this point, I think my own last words are going to be complaining about Cybermart. I need a subpoena to get those files, I've done everything I can at this point." Carrie could hear the desperation in her voice. She needed Winters to see her point of view.

"I was afraid you'd say that. Listen, we're still working on a backlog here, but I think I can get to it in a couple of days," Winters told her.

"Any chance we can skip to the front of the line?"

"Sorry, Blake. Send over the paperwork, and I'll see what I can do to get you Gordon Light's files. I'm warning you though, this won't be easy. Cybermart, Net Guardian, Matt Penske — they don't really like to play by the rules," Winters said.

"I've heard. They play by their own rules. Well, I think it's time to remind the billionaires that, as much as they try, they still have to share the world with the rest of us, and that includes the law. I'll have everything you need sent over by the end of the day."

SEVEN

TOM

Tom had been a pretty active kid. He'd learned from an early age how to entertain himself, with parents who weren't exactly present in his day-to-day life. Like many millennials, he spent a lot of time online as a kid. The aunt who helped raise him would drop him off at the local library that had a homework program, where Tom spent most of his time playing online games when he was supposed to be writing papers. So, you could say, Tom was very technologically literate.

Carrie had come from a happy home, the youngest of five siblings, all of whom had a desire to excel and end up in law enforcement — and parents who were there to encourage their dreams. Growing up, Carrie spent most of her time outside, as her mother believed that too much screen time would rot her eyes and melt her brain. She played sports with her brothers and chess with her detective dad. This meant that, as a grown up, Carrie was not very technologically literate.

And this was how Tom found himself draped over Carrie's desk, trying to explain to her what encryption meant.

"Tom, if you say encryption one more time⁠—"

"Carrie, encryption isn't a complicated concept. Just think about the ENIGMA machine in the second world war."

"What does World War Two have to do with the internet?"

"It—nothing. It's the encryption machine."

"So you're trying to tell me the internet has been around since the 1940s?"

"No, but to understand encrypted files, it's helpful to understand an encryption machine."

"What, so spies are running the internet now?"

Tom collapsed beside Carrie's desk and massaged his temples. He'd had an easier time explaining to his Russian landlord how to set up a smartphone — and his landlord didn't even speak English.

From behind them, the voice of Chief Gary Culbertson boomed, "Blake. Elway. My office. Now."

For once, Tom was relieved to hear the Chief call his name, it would keep his head from exploding all over the precinct. The duo dragged their feet to Culbertson's office, both of them knowing they really didn't have much to say. The briefing meeting was about to be extremely short.

Not only had they been unable to find any human witnesses to the murder, but the only available evidence of the murder was on a video file, encrypted on Net Guardian's overseas servers. Carrie had finally tracked down a member of the NYPD IT department who happened to have a friend who used to work for Net Guardian. They had explained to the detectives that the security systems didn't actually store any of the video files locally — presumably for security purposes and to help law enforcement obtain the video files in criminal cases. Instead, the Net Guardian systems showed the user an encrypted livestream and would send notifications whenever a security problem was detected. Whether it was an intruder alert or a fire alarm, it was possible that the only time someone actually watched the livestream was when there was a problem they were notified of. When recording, the files were automatically sent to the overseas servers and could only be accessed by the original user.

Tom had been trying to coach Carrie on how to explain this to Culbertson, but he had run out of time. The two entered his office and sat down silently.

"Well, don't both of you talk at once," Culbertson said, his black eyes darting between the two detectives.

Tom took a deep breath. "You see, sir, we're having a bit of trouble with the case."

Culbertson's eyes zoned in on Tom. He felt like he had a target on his forehead. "Trouble? What do you mean?"

"There are no witnesses, no human ones anyway. The wife was on vacation, but there doesn't seem to have been any animosity between the couple that would lead us to believe she was a suspect. We scoured the apartment and found no material evidence but did note that Gordon Light had a top of the line security system called Net Guardian."

"Where are you on getting the files from this Net Guardian system?" Culbertson asked.

Tom tried to think on his feet, figure out how to explain encryption in a way that wouldn't make him cry.

"You see, sir, the Net Guardian files were encrypted," Carrie spoke up.

Tom stared at her, shocked she was willing to step in.

"Encrypted? What does that mean?" Culbertson asked.

"Like an ENIGMA machine," Carrie offered; it was clear she had no idea what that meant.

Tom hoped Culbertson would be so confused he just wouldn't ask any follow-up questions.

"Ah, like the Germans in World War II. I'm surprised you know about the Ultra program." Culbertson leaned back in his chair, apparently satisfied.

Tom had to pick his jaw up off the floor — hours spent with Carrie and Culbertson took a minute to understand what it meant to encrypt a file so that it was indecipherable to a third party?

Carrie was obviously also surprised that her metaphor had landed, but both of the detectives were relieved that it seemed to put Culbertson in a more relaxed mood.

"Do we have the files? Are they being decrypted now?" Culbertson asked.

"No," Tom answered, "we've asked the DA to subpoena Net Guardian and their parent company, Cybermart, but their legal team is making things difficult for us. Penske's legal team sent back the subpoena multiple times challenging the language used and in general have answered the DA as slowly as possible."

"They told us this is pretty normal for Cybermart," Carrie offered.

Culbertson turned around in his chair.

Carrie and Tom turned to each other and Carrie gave Tom a weak thumbs up and mouthed, "Thank you."

"Have you tried asking the wife?" Culbertson said, spinning back around to face the detectives.

"It seemed like the Net Guardian system was Gordon Light's idea and project. She claims she didn't want a live security system in the first place, but he insisted because it was a brand-new innovation," Tom explained.

"We don't think she'd have access to the system — or cared to," Carrie continued.

Tom smiled, as difficult as it was to teach her basic internet skills, it was nice to feel like Carrie was on his side. The dead ends in this case were frustrating, but it seemed to be bringing the pair closer together.

"Check with the wife again. She must have access to some of his information, even if it's just his phone. If she refuses, make sure she knows we have subpoena power."

The two detectives nodded at Culbertson, knowing for sure that they'd come back empty-handed. Becky Light was becoming less and less cooperative as it took longer for the detectives to solve her husband's mysterious murder.

"Okay, for the last time, what are we going to do?" Tom asked.

"Politely and calmly ask Becky Light if she can provide access to her husband's account," Carrie responded.

"And what are we going to avoid?"

"Any implication, suggestion, or connotation that her being uncooperative means she may have killed her husband. It simply means that she was disinterested in her husband's business and the technological innovations he made on their home."

Tom nodded his head. The two had been parked outside of Eastern Yards for so long, the dog walkers had started to get suspicious. He and Carrie practiced what they were going to say to Becky, they had implied on the phone that this meeting would be a casual one and that was the only reason the widow had invited them back to the apartment.

"I just can't believe that someone would allow their husband to fill the home with automatic techno-gadgets and not care to learn how they worked. It seems so dangerous to me," Carrie said.

Tom tried to calm Carrie down. "You've been a cop for too long — and surrounded by them for longer. It doesn't always lead to the worst-case scenario. Some people know their partner likes to stay on top of technology, and they just don't care to engage. Becky trusted her husband and put up with many of his antics. She was a lot more patient that you could ever be."

"You're right. Cathy Belway would probably let Tod do something like that." Carrie got out of the cruiser and slammed the door.

Carrie compared all of her undesirable behaviors to her undercover alter-ego, and Tom wasn't entirely sure why. He thought their relationship while undercover was great — a little too great at times. Carrie had never been as patient with Tom in the history of their partnership. She listened to his ideas, and their sarcastic banter felt comfortable rather than aggressive. Tom missed Cathy Belway sometimes, he missed having someone to bounce ideas off as they fell asleep at night, and someone to remind him not to eat pasta and shawarma wraps for every meal. Sometimes Tom wondered if Cathy was still there, buried beneath Carrie's NYPD demeanour.

Tom jogged after Carrie up to the entrance to Eastern Yards. The concierge let them in with a breezy, "She's expecting you."

Tom could read the concierge like a book at this point, and he could tell from the greeting that Becky Light was not in a good mood. He waved at the security guard, gave the hidden cameras a friendly finger gun salute, and joined Carrie at the elevator bank. She was looking at him like he had two heads.

"Did you buy an apartment here when I wasn't paying attention?"

"Obviously, I mean, what's a 401k for anyway if not to blow on an expensive condo when I'm 31?" Tom chuckled and stepped into the elevator.

Carrie rolled her eyes and followed him in.

The door to the Light's penthouse suite was open when the detectives arrived. Tom and Carrie tiptoed in, looking around for Becky. Carrie instinctively put her hand over her gun, ready in case of a struggle. Tom followed suit. They heard a noise coming from the office, it sounded like… choking? As the detectives crept through the apartment, they made sure to have each other's backs in case whoever killed Gordon Light had come back to eliminate Becky as well.

They got to the door of the office. Tom could see the Net Guardian drone blink to life down the hall. Carrie gave him a signal to open the door on three, she stood ready with her gun drawn. She counted down from one, two⁠—

On three, Tom kicked open the office door and Carrie barged in flashing her badge. Carrie had barely called out her request for everyone to get down on the ground when Becky Light's screams pierced the detectives' ears. She dropped under Gordon Light's desk, kicking up a pile of used tissues.

"Please don't shoot me! You can take anything you want!" the widow cried.

Carrie turned red with shock and froze on the spot. Tom ran in, holstering his gun, and picking Becky Light up off the floor. She clung to him while crying, and he tried to calm her down. Tom snapped at Carrie and motioned for her to go get a glass of water. Carrie shook her head and ran off to find the kitchen.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Light, the front door was open and when we came in, we heard a strange sound. We just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Well, instead, you almost gave me a heart attack! Where else would I be? You people always need to go into Gordon's office. Do you know how hard it is for me to be in here? The chair still smells like his cologne, his computer still gets emails, everything in here is a reminder that my little Gordo is gone!" Becky Light dropped her head on the desk and cried.

Tom awkwardly patted her on the back, and silently hoped Carrie remembered how to get to the kitchen and back.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Light, we should have known." Tom could have kicked himself, of course a widow would feel emotional when coming into her dead husband's office. "Hopefully, we'll be out of your hair soon." Where was Carrie with that water?

"What exactly did you need from me anyway? My lawyers have already answered your requests for permission to view the camera feed."

"They have, but unfortunately, we're having a hard time accessing the footage directly from Net Guardian. We were hoping you could sign in for us. We'll take it from there, I don't want to traumatize you any more than I already have today." Tom spoke as gently as he could. What was it that his dad used to say? Make them feel you're on their side, angry about the same things they are, sad about the same things they are. That's how you get what you want from a woman. Tom shook his head to get his father's voice out of there, turning back to Becky Light. "It must be infuriating navigating all this technology in your home now."

"It is, actually. I never cared when Gordon was alive, he loved this stuff. The voice-controlled sink, and the automatic lights. Without him, I feel like I'm living in a fun house."

"You can say that again!" Carrie had chosen the worst possible moment to return with a glass of water. She stopped before she got to the desk. "Sorry for my outburst. I had a hard time telling the tap I wanted plain water."

"Yes. Gordo always loved sparkling." Becky started to quietly sob while she took sips of her water.

Carrie and Tom stood by awkwardly, neither wanting to tell the widow that they really needed her help to sign into the Net Guardian system. When she was finished, Becky Light took a deep breath and looked up at Tom.

"Enough with my emotions, you were here for a task, and I am assuming it has to do with Gordon's office, or else the lawyers could have supplied you with whatever you needed."

"Yes, ma'am. We were hoping you could sign into the Net Guardian, so we could download some of the footage it recorded or streamed just before… um, before the incident with your husband." Tom chose his words very carefully. They had already scared Becky, didn't need to give her another reason to kick them out.

"Oh, I've tried that. I tried signing in the other day, look what happens." Becky turned to the computer, referencing a notepad with all of Gordon Light's passwords and usernames for all of his online accounts. She signed into Net Guardian Systems, which then requested a two-factor authentication from the Net Guardian Secure Browser. When she logged in to that, it then requested yet another two-factor authentication from the Net Guardian Authentication App.

"That's where I get stuck. I don't have the right authentication app, and try as I might, I can't get anyone from Net Guardian on the phone to reset it. The authentication app was on Gordon's secured work phone, which was automatically wiped when he died. There's no way for me to reset the authentication app because it would require a special code that is generated from within the Net Guardian Systems application." Becky Light collapsed on the desk in exasperated tears.

"The circle of life moves us all," Carrie muttered.

Tom remembered Carrie had tried signing up for Net Guardian, so they could access the customer support page, and had encountered the same circuitous route that Becky now faced. The trip up to Eastern Yards had been for nothing.

The duo sat down in the cruiser and stared out the window. Neither knew what to do next, both were frustrated like they had never been before. They'd come so far and still had zero witnesses, and their only suspect was a mysterious flying object. The tension was building between them, when they were undercover, they'd had a perfect solution to this problem.

"Do you want to come over and punch the couch cushions?"

"My boxing gloves are in the trunk."

When they were undercover and frustrated with their case, Tom and Carrie would literally punch the lights out of a couch they had found on the side of the road. When the case was over, Tom took the couch cushions and kept them at his apartment. He stopped at a bodega to grab some beers, and then he and Carrie took their anger out on the couch they had shared in their undercover-married home.

EIGHT

CARRIE

“Today is going to be a good day," Carrie thought as she got ready for work. She woke up before her 6 a.m. alarm, got ready, even allowing herself an extra-long shower. Rather than a sensible bowl of overnight oats, Carrie opted to grab a coffee and come pastries from the café near the precinct as a treat. Today was going to be the day that the impossible investigation into Gordon Light's murder finally turned around, and she wanted a little reward. No more infuriating phone calls with Cybermart's legal team, no more hours spent on the phone trying to get Net Guardian's customer support on the line. From here on out, it would be a straightforward case.

"Good morning, Detective Spade," Carrie chirped, "croissant?"

"Don't mind if I do. You seem extra chipper this morning," Detective Spade answered, mouth full of French pastry.

"Today is the day!" Carrie sang.

The elevator doors opened and Tom burst into the detective pool, early, for the first time in Carrie's memory.

"Morning, Carrie! Ooh, are those croissants?" Tom was buzzing off on the same cloud that was carrying Carrie on an otherwise dreary morning.

"I thought it might be nice, to mark the occasion," Carrie said, offering Tom the box. "I got enough for everyone."

Detective Spade looked at the duo like they had swapped heads. "What's the occasion?"

"We got the videos!" Tom and Carrie exclaimed in unison.

Detective Spade raised his eyebrows and went back to his desk. It wasn't his place to judge what made his coworkers excited. He stole another croissant and walked off to make himself a coffee in the detectives' kitchen.

'M'lady?" said Tom, offering his arm.

Carrie took it and the pair walked off in search of Ned Bryant and the Net Guardian footage from Gordon Light's apartment.

"Okay, are we all ready?" Ned Bryant asked.

Carrie and Tom cheered each other with their croissants and nodded at the forensic specialist.

Ned hit play on his screen, and the duo leaned forward in anticipation of finally setting eyes on who killed Gordon Light.

The video started abruptly with some boring footage of an empty apartment. Apparently the cameras were trained on a lot more than just Becky Light's priceless Picassos. There was a noise, the sound of a door slamming, and the footage jumped to the main hallway where Gordon Light entered the apartment in a huff. He was muttering to himself under his breath, but the detectives couldn't make out what he was saying. They saw him from behind heading to the bathroom, and it looked like the footage was mobile.

"This footage must be from that drone unit they have," Tom said through his flakey chews. "They said it was a compilation, everything that was sent directly to the livestream," answered Ned.

The footage continued, with the drone closing in on Gordon Light's balding head. Gordon abruptly turns around and swats the camera away like a fly.

"Camera, to dock," he said, staring down the barrel of the lens.

The camera didn't do what he asked, as it continued to hover in front of him.

"CAM-ER-A, TO DOOOCK," he repeated, slowly and loudly, like an American on vacation.

The camera does not respond. Gordon turned, muttering something about a useless piece of junk as he headed to the bathroom. He broke into a run and abruptly slammed the door, almost causing the drone to crash into it.

The drone seemed to move back from the door, but continued to hover, waiting for Gordon. When he came out, he looked incensed and tried running away from the drone into his office. The drone was too fast for him and made it in before he swings the door shut. "You're not supposed to be in here! This room is out of bounds!" he screamed at the drone, "Out of bounds!" moving his hands like a baseball umpire. He opened the door and demanded the drone exit with a stern, "Out!"

"This guard dog is very poorly trained," said Ned Bryant, and the two detectives laughed.

"Maybe he should take it to drone-puppy school." Carrie laughed, and Tom gave her a high-five.

On the recording, Gordon picked up a broom and was swatting the drone away while yelling at it, accusing the drone of being part of a spy conspiracy. "Who's controlling you, huh? The FCC? Is it Tom? Tom, I always knew you were a weirdo, well, you're not stealing my investment secrets using this robot Doberman! Who are you! Who sent you!" he continued shouting at the drone and eventually seemed to grab it with his two hands. Gordon wrestled the drone back into its charging pod, and then the footage cut out.

"That's it?" asked Tom, only half-finished his second croissant.

"That's all, folks," Ned Bryant responded. "I re-downloaded the file thinking maybe I missed something but no dice. Net Guardian has sent you a video of a crazy old man yelling at a flying robot, but no shooter."

Carrie's face fell, suddenly the buttery flaky pastry tasted like plywood. "What's the timestamp on that?"

Ned Bryant checked his notes. "About a half hour before he died."

"Okay, so he gets home, gets chased around by a drone, and then what? Sits down to watch the sunset?" Carrie tried to reconstruct the evening of a one-percenter. "Did he break open some caviar at least?"

"His phone records indicate that in between this recording and supposed time of death, he called Net Guardian's customer support line," Ned offered, "so I guess you can assume he was trying to call someone about the drone."

"Didn't the wife say she kept getting notifications of the video feed recording, even when it was supposed to be turned off?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, and Gordon was supposed to call the customer service line about it. That explains his final tweet, he spent his last few hours angry at technology," Carrie answered, trying to work this knot of an idea out in her mind.

Carrie took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Gordon arrived at home, already angry because he had to call Net Guardian over his wife's notification issue. It's been a long day, and as soon as he arrives the same system starts chasing him around, fueling the flames of his complaint. He sits down in his chair to call them, and then got shot. It couldn't have been by an intruder, there was no evidence of a break in and besides, the footage they had showed Gordon chasing the drone all over the apartment. Even if an intruder cleaned up after the fact, the detectives would have seen evidence of someone else in the apartment on the secure footage. If anything, the Net Guardian would have warned Gordon as he entered that someone was there, unless…

"What if someone was spying on him?" she asked.

Tom turned to Carrie. "Carrie, how many times do I have to remind you that not all technology is evil?" Tom deadpanned.

"Hear me out. Gordon may have been a grouchy old complainer, but he wasn't a very paranoid man. Maybe this wasn't the first time his drone started following him around, or

showing up in places it wasn't supposed to. When he's in his office, he tells the drone it's "out of bounds" — don't you think it sounds like that wasn't the first time he had to remind the thing to not enter his office?"

"That's a good point, actually. When we interviewed others at his investment firm, they did mention he kept complaining about the Net Guardian not following his instructions."

"Maybe someone in his security department was spying on him. They were the only people who had access, apart from his wife. I doubt she had the technological know-how to access the feed," Carrie concluded.

"But he would know, wouldn't he? He could tell if someone in his department accessed the livestream, there's supposed to be a log for users that shows everyone and every location that has tapped into the Net Guardian feed," Tom reminded her.

"An outside source could have hacked in, wiped the logs or made it so that they never showed up there in the first place."

The detectives went silent, each trying to put the pieces of this puzzle back together, while Ned Bryant sat twiddling his thumbs.

"Do you guys want to watch the tape again?" Ned Bryant awkwardly asked.

"No, we're good. Thanks, Ned," the duo spoke in unison, stood up together, and sped out of Ned's office.

Carrie and Tom made a pact. No matter how many times they had to go over the same information, they would not give up. Whoever was behind this murder had gone through great pains to make sure it was untraceable, but that person hadn't met Carrie Blake and Tom Elway — the detective duo who were spiteful as well as stubborn. The amount of resistance they received from Cybermart just strengthened their resolve to solve this case.

As soon as they sat down, Carrie called the DA again. "Winters here."

"Rachel, it's Carrie Blake again."

"Oh no."

"Yeah. Turns out the footage we acquired was only for the half hour leading up to the murder, not the murder itself."

"Tell me what you need," Rachel Winters sighed. "I'll see what I can do with Cybermart and their legal team."

"Thank you! We suspect, based on what the victim said in the footage we could see, that someone was accessing the system without his permission, or, with his permission, but without his knowledge."

"Either his security team was spying on him, or some hackers were spying on him."

"Yes. We need as much information as we can on who accessed the cameras. We also want as much information as possible on any complaints they had filed from Gordon Light. Oh, and the footage of the murder."

"Is that all? Detective Blake, I thought you said it would be hard to get the information!" Rachel replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I know, I know you guys are busy, but if there was any way we could access this, you know I would be taking care of it myself. I don't want to waste any more time on this case."

"I hear you. Cybermart and Penske are legal bulldogs, and you need another legal bulldog to enter the ring. I'll see what I can do and get back to you in a few days."

"Good luck, Winters."

"Thanks. I'll need it." The two women hung up.

Carrie felt a little powerless that she couldn't just barge in to Cybermart headquarters with her badge and start rounding up the video, but these days the more money you had, the more secure your information could be. This case was breaking down Carrie's vision that the NYPD had any power at all. What Tom said when they were first assigned to the case was proving to be true — the ultra-rich lived by their own rules and, in many ways, they didn't really have to answer to the letter of the law.

The thought made Carrie angry. She had been surrounded by law enforcement professionals all her life, had seen more than her fair share of the wrong person going to prison, or someone with less power taking the fall for their boss. She was more determined than ever to find Gordon Light's killer and remind him that they all spoke the same language, and money didn't give you a free pass out of the law.

NINE

TOM

“So what you're saying is, Cybermart is giving us nothing," Tom said into Carrie's speakerphone. The duo were on a call with Assistant District Attorney Rachel Winters. She had been dealing with Cybermart and Matt Penske's legal team, trying to get the NYPD more information about Gordon Light's relationship with Net Guardian.

All they wanted was documentation about his previous complaints, but the company claims there were none. According to them, Gordon Light was perfectly happy with his Net Guardian device and often referred them to others. It sounded more like a sales pitch than anything. Tom brought up the fact that Gordon Light had gone on many rants against the security system on social media, but the company did not consider those valid complaints.

Carrie rolled her eyes when she heard. Tom remembered the days she spent on hold with Net Guardian and Cybermart, so he was willing to believe that either Gordon Light's complaints had been registered and then deleted, or that he was unable to make those complaints in the first place due to the company being nearly impossible to get a hold of.

The DA's office and Cybermart's legal team had been in a battle for the better part of the last week, attempting to negotiate what the officers could see of the footage of Gordon Light's murder. At first, the company claimed nothing had been saved. After all, most of the video footage wasn't recorded or stored anywhere, even on their servers overseas. However, something changed the week prior. They finally admitted that there was a recording of Gordon Light's death — but they weren't sure it would be legally sound to allow the NYPD to see it.

"Why not!" demanded Carrie, who had been doing most of the liaison grunt work on this case.

"It's a sensitive matter. They don't want the footage to become public, don't want to re-traumatize the widow. There are valid reasons why they don't feel comfortable sharing this footage," Winters told Carrie, as calmly as she could.

Tom understood why Carrie was so adamant they needed this footage. There was no way they could solve the case without it. But he could see where ADA Winters was coming from. Carrie tended to have a one-track mind, especially when it came to her detective work. It's what made her such a success in the department, Tom thought, but this case wouldn't be solved by going by the book. Tom knew he could show Carrie the light — that they might need to go about this the long way rather than continue to throw themselves at Cybermart, hoping something would stick.

"I have a meeting with them later today. I'm going to suggest that you two can watch the video in a secure location and make notes while you're there. Then the recording goes back into Cybermart's archives, and you two have the evidence you'll need to find the perpetrator. Does that sound fair?"

"Yes," Tom said, nudging Carrie with his elbow.

"I suppose," Carrie muttered. The two said their goodbyes and hung up the call. Carrie slumped back into her seat. "I guess I'll just go home and wait for the call," she said.

"Aw, c'mon, just because you can't bust through his door like a vintage cartoon doesn't mean this case is cold. We just need to change tactics. Why don't we look at the security angle? Someone on his team, with knowledge of the security system, access, and knowledge of his fortune, would be the likely suspect in another other similar situation."

"I guess you're right. Maybe I'll call the head of security again, run a criminal check on his team."

"Good idea. I'd check their social media accounts as well, see if any of them showed some kind of jealousy or resentment toward their boss." Tom always had to nudge Carrie in the less conservative, more modern approach. People spent so much time online, it was easier to find information that way than it was knocking down doors. These days, no one knew their neighbors, but they knew everything about the people they follow online.

Carrie nodded and shook her coffee mug at Tom. "But first, sustenance." She got up and went off to the kitchen.

Tom smiled and watched her walk away. He checked his phone and, when he did, saw that he had ten missed calls, all of them from a blocked number. Tom's whole body froze, he was pretty sure who it was and if they were calling this much —

Suddenly, Tom's phone started ringing in his hand. He abruptly stood up and headed to the bathroom. He couldn't think of anywhere else he could take a private phone call. When he got there, Tom put the phone up to his ear, expecting a familiar robotic voice. At first, he heard nothing on the line and took a moment to kick in the stall doors to make sure he was really alone.

"Hello."

The voice on the other end of the line was not what Tom was expecting. He froze on the spot. The voice sounded distorted, like someone was using a voice modulator. It sounded like a robot drowning in the Marianas Trench while choking on a popcorn kernel and smoking a cigarette.

"Hello? Who is this?" Tom demanded.

"You don't need to know who it is," the voice answered.

Tom thought he could hear breathing on the line, but it was distorted, like the voice was. That meant it wasn't an automated call, not some robot scam. This was a real person.

"Well, why did you call?" he asked.

"The Gordon Light murder. You're working on it."

"How do you know I'm working on the Gordon Light murder?"

"Same way I know you only have three ties, and you're standing in the bathroom of the precinct right now."

Tom's back shot straight up, on alert for anything coming his way, he tried to subtly reach for his gun and slowly moved around the bathroom to check again if he was really alone. Whomever the caller was, he knew too much.

"How do you know where I am?"

"Simple. You got up from your desk and walked away from the windows. Now it sounds like you're in a room with a slight echo. In a police department that can only mean two things, the lock-up or the john. You answered my call too quickly to have made it down to a jail cell; therefore, you must be in the bathroom. You're not the only one who can do detective work, you know."

The voice sounded smug, someone who thought Tom was beneath him, maybe even a bit of a meathead. It could be anyone, Tom was often underestimated, and even his own partner joked about how meat headed he could be.

"Okay, Mystery Detective. You've got me, but clearly not so close you have a weapon pointed at me. So, what do you want? You want to talk, to make a deal? Did you kill Gordon Light?"

The voice at the other end of the line just laughed. "You wish it were that easy," it said, "I figured since you NYPD idiots don't have a suspect yet, I'd help you out a little bit. Throw you a bone in the right direction."

At that, the voice began to bark like a dog. Tom really hated being treated like an idiot, he'd had enough of that in his life.

"Okay, you little weirdo, what do you have? A piece of Gordon's sandwich he ate that day? Did he wink at you on the subway once, and now you're seeking revenge?"

"No, nothing like that. I've got a name for you. If you're interested, that is."

A name? What was Tom getting himself into? He desperately wished Carrie could have been on this call, her cool-headed determination would have been perfect right about now. Tom had to think the way Carrie would think. What would Carrie do in this situation?

"Okay, I'll bite. What have you got?" Tom sounded cool but felt anything but.

"You have to promise me you'll follow up. Drop this Net Guardian angle, and just follow up on the name."

"I can't make that kind of promise. If the Net Guardian pans out … how do you know that's what we're looking at?"

"A guy as rich as Gordon Light wouldn't have had any other kind of security system in his home."

Touché.

"Fair. I can't convince my partner to suddenly drop an angle, not without being able to confirm your identity. How can I call you a confidential informant when I don't even know who you are?" Tom hoped to draw as much information out of this mystery caller as he could.

There was silence on the other end of the line. For a moment Tom thought the call dropped, but then the voice said, "Fine."

"Great. So. What's the name?"

"Have you heard of Trace Stuart?"

"Who?"

The voice guffawed, mocking Tom's ignorance. "Trace Stuart is an online anarchist punk who calls himself an ethical hacker. He's been going on rants about the ultra-rich for years, and it's escalated in the past few months. He's also been loudly critical about Matt Penske and the innovative Net Guardian system. Claims it will lead to society living in a surveillance state."

Trace Stuart — the name sounded familiar, but Tom wasn't entirely sure how. Likely from his long study of Gordon Light's private messages, but if he had found inflammatory statements he would have followed up, run a background check at least.

"So what? An anarchist thinks society is on the verge of collapse — what else is new? How is he connected to Light?"

"Do I need to spell it out for you? You should check Trace Stuart's blog, or his hacker forum posts. He's been bragging about taking down the one percent and how he's killed another 'goddamn rich guy'. He laid out the plan of the whole apartment, practically encouraging his little minions to rob the joint."

"What was he telling them to steal?"

"A Picasso — said it was in the main living room where Gordon Light was shot, above the television. There's a Ming Dynasty vase in the hallway leading to the bedrooms — I saw photos, the thing is priceless. He basically made a catalog of all the valuables in the apartment for his little followers to come back later, like some modern-day Robin Hood gang. Stuart says he hacked the Net Guardian system and has been harassing Gordon Light with it. He thinks it's funny, just check his blog. According to the post, Trace Stuart led him to the living room like cattle to the slaughterhouse. When he sat in the chair — well, I don't need to tell you the rest."

"He shot him from inside the apartment?"

"I have a floor plan of Gordon Light's apartment, along with details on where his most valuable pieces are. Trace Stuart is all about repeating the French Revolution — distribute the wealth of the ultra-rich and send them all to the guillotine. There are memes all over his Twitter and his blog, he's proud of it. I bet he confesses to the murder right on the spot."

This Trace Stuart guy wasn't sounding too bad to Tom, the one percent could do with a reminder that they had to share the world with the rest of humanity. Tom took a second to think about what the caller was saying — he described the scene of the crime pretty accurately. Hacker forums were notoriously hard to gain access to, if he could just get proof of what Trace Stuart wrote —

"How did Trace make it look like the gun was shot from the outside?"

"He didn't say. Maybe he carved a hole in the glass, all those penthouses are made bulletproof. No one can just blast their way through the glass. I can't believe my tax dollars are going to you guys."

"I need proof of what he did say. Without that, I have no reason to follow up on what you claim." Tom tried provoking the voice a little, he sounded like a smug hacker himself, the kind of guy who would spill his secrets just to prove he has them.

"I'll send you screenshots. I can't let a member of law enforcement on that thread. Just figured you'd like a little nudge in the right direction." With that, the line went dead. The voice was gone and Tom was left staring at his phone.

His phone pinged with a text message notification — it was just Carrie asking where he was.

Tom snapped back to reality and left the bathroom to go back to his desk.

"I was in the bathroom," he said as he got back, "someone called me with a tip on Gordon Light's murder."

"They called you directly? Why not the precinct or Crime-stoppers?" Carrie had never been one to play outside of the rules.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Who cares! Have you ever heard of a guy named Trace Stuart?"

"No."

"Apparently the guy is some anarchist hacker determined to bring down the ultra-rich. He posted details of Gordon Light's apartment on a forum, details you couldn't know unless you were in the apartment, or hacked into his security system." Tom realized he was hyperventilating, overexcited from finally breaking through a wall in the case.

Carrie grabbed his arm and pulled him down on to his chair. "Tom, I need you to take a deep breath, drink some water, and start over from the beginning. Can you do that for me?" Carrie patted Tom on the back.

He nodded, following her guidance and taking a deep breath and a few sips of water.

"Now, please convince me why we should be following advice from a mystery caller who somehow got your phone number?"

"We don't have anything else to go on, Carrie! We've been deadlocked since the beginning, no witnesses, no material evidence, stalled by Cybermart — this is the first shred of a lead we have." Just then, Tom's phone pinged with a text message.

"This is him — he said he'd send screenshots of Trace Stuart's latest posts on some anarchist hacker forum." Tom tapped open the photos and Carrie leaned over him to get a closer look. Tom tried to ignore the smell of Carrie's shampoo.

"These floor plans would've been helpful when we first went over there, took me at least two visits before I figured out that maze." Carrie didn't seem impressed, but a quick scroll through the other photos showed memes of Gordon Light getting guillotined in his leather chair — the same leather chair he was killed in. "What is this forum, anyway?" Carrie asked.

"It's a hacker forum. They don't really like to leave a trace." Tom tore himself away from smelling Carrie's hair and back to the photos.

"Good point. Wow, these posts are —"

"Inflammatory?" Tom offered.

"To say the least. I doubt we can find this exact hacker forum, but if this is what he's saying here, there must be a trace of his views elsewhere on the internet."

"Another goddamn rich person… that means there are others?" Tom and Carrie looked at each other with a mix of shock and awe.

"Tom, you go through your notes on the private messages again. See if there's a Trace Stuart in there and follow up with any usernames that are similar — it could be he uses an alias in certain corners of the internet, so it doesn't come back to him."

"Good call. See if you can find out where he is."

"I have two brothers in the FBI. If this guy has been active as an anarchist hacker, he'll definitely appear on an FBI watchlist. I'll call my brothers and find out if either of them have any information as to Trace Stuart's whereabouts."

Tom spun around to his computer and typed in the name, Trace Stuart. There were so many hits on the search engine, he didn't even know where to start.

"Carrie, this guy was in jail already."

"What? How did we not know about him?"

"Well, we didn't realize the Net Guardian system was hacked until a couple of days ago. He is now out on parole after serving seven years on a charge related to hacking high-level systems, so he definitely has the ability to hack into the Net Guardian software." Tom kept reading, kicking himself for not finding this guy's name sooner when he was searching through Gordon Light's online hate mail. "His blog really is full of guillotine memes and rants about the one percent."

"That still doesn't explain how he could have shot Gordon Light and not left a trace. The guy is a hacker, not a professional hit man."

"Maybe he's both."

The detectives looked each other in the eyes over their desks. They were excited again. After all that red tape around Net Guardian and Cybermart, they finally had an angle, a lead, an actual suspect. Finally, they could be detectives again.

"I'll find out where he is. You get as much information as you can," Carrie said, picking up the phone.

Tom smiled; he was ready to get back in the groove.

TEN

TOM

Tom knocked on the door. "Are you sure this is it?" he asked Carrie.

"This is the address Carl gave me," she said, looking down at her notes. "Apparently he spends most of his time here, doing whatever it is that hackers do."

"I'm surprised he's allowed anywhere near a computer. Most citizens prosecuted for computer related crimes aren't allowed anywhere near them for years."

"He negotiated that as part of the plea deal. Claimed that because this crime was altruistic in nature, and technically didn't hurt anybody there was no reason for him to be barred from having an online presence. Besides, even if he hadn't, I imagine that wouldn't stop him," Carrie said.

The detectives looked at the door to a sub-ground level brownstone apartment. It looked like no one had been there in years, but Carrie pointed out there was a brand-new lock on the door. Tom was sick of facing closed doors and dead ends in this investigation, and he banged on the door again with the side of his fist.

"Trace Stuart? This is Tom Elway; we spoke on the phone. Let us in, we just want to interview you."

The detectives stared at the door, waiting for the sound of someone behind it or a doorknob move, but they were unrewarded.

Tom banged on the door again. "Trace Stuart? This is Detective Tom Elway. We are here to interview you regarding a murder, please open this door," he yelled. Tom glanced over his shoulder and smiled tightly at the neighbors who slowed to watch the scene.

Carrie pushed him out of the way and banged on the door herself.

"Trace Stuart, either you can open the door right now or we can bust it down and drag you to the precinct. That will involve a call to your parole officer as well, in case you were wondering." Carrie sternly addressed the door while Tom waved away the growing scene. She nudged Tom as a curtain in the nearby window rustled.

A moment later, a modulated voice came from behind the door. "Show me your credentials. I have a peephole."

Carrie and Tom looked at each other. Whomever this guy was, he was weird. They pulled out their badges and showed them to the closed door.

"Thank you," the modulated voice said, "please confirm your identity and the nature of your visit. If we had a scheduled appointment, you should know what to do."

Tom rolled his eyes. Trace had sent an email with "instructions" on what to do when they arrived. One of them was a script from a book he had read. Tom jotted it down in his notebook

— he was never great at memorization. He cleared his throat and said, "You should be a billionaire, Randy. Thank God you're not."

The modulated voice continued the little skit, "Why do you say that?"

"Oh, because then you'd be a highly intelligent man who never has to make difficult choices. It is a state much worse than being a moron."

Tom had looked it up. The exchange was from some book called Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson. He shrugged at Carrie; it was a fitting password for a guy who hated billionaires.

The modulated voice on the other side of the door paused before saying, "You could have added some more gravitas, but I guess technically you did as I stipulated. You can come in."

A lock clicked, and the door swung open to a dark basement that was clean and empty of furniture, except for a multiscreen computer set up in what should have been a living room. Carrie and Tom stepped into the hallway and were greeted by Trace Stuart; a tall, very thin, very wiry man with dark hair, a short black fade, and wide brown eyes.

"Sorry for the voice thing," he said, his voice back to normal. "I was SWAT-ed a couple times at my old spot, and you can never be too careful nowadays." He spoke casually, as if getting the SWAT team called down to your house by snotty kids on the internet was something that happened to everyone.

Carrie looked at Trace like he had just spoken an ancient language. Tom made a mental note to add 'swatting' to the long and growing list of internet concepts he had to teach Carrie.

"Would either of you like some tea?" Trace said, puttering off into the tiny kitchen.

"No, thanks!" the detectives called out, awkwardly scanning the apartment for signs of any weapons before sitting down on a small futon.

"Cool," Trace said, awkwardly staring at the detectives, waiting for them to begin.

Tom had poked his head into the spare room, elbowing Carrie. Trace's set up was more than just a computer nerd's gaming chair. There were multiple monitors on multiple different tables, each one seemingly locked from prying eyes, and beneath the largest desk was a small bike — the kind of thing you'd use to work out while you were online. Trace Stuart may not have been getting very much light or fresh air, but at least he was trying to take care of himself. Trace awkwardly pointed at a futon in the main room and the detectives sat down. He sat across from them. The three of them stared at each other.

"You said you had questions for me?" Trace asked.

Tom cleared his throat, breaking away from cataloguing how many video games Trace had neatly stacked on the shelf near one of his computers.

"Are you familiar with a man named Gordon Light?" Carrie asked.

Trace Stuart scoffed, "You mean the most privileged man in the world? How much time do you have to have on your hands to be the kind of guy who complains about the types of trees being planted in Central Park? I heard he died; did he leave his billions to the masses? Oh, let me guess, he split his estate between his kids and then left a couple million to a hamster he had in his apartment, so it could have a state-of-the-art hamster wheel and keep running on it day after day, the same way we, the working people must continue to toil on our own hamster wheel only barely avoiding a life of destitution. Everyone struggles under constant debt while holding up the ultra-rich of this world like we're Atlas."

Carrie and Tom just stared. Tom was trying to determine whether or not Trace Stuart had taken a breath. Carrie was trying to remember whether or not Gordon Light had a hamster.

"Um, yes, that Gordon Light," Tom offered.

"What about him?" Trace asked.

"Where were you on the day he died?" Carrie continued for Tom.

"I don't know; at home probably. Why, am I a suspect?" Trace answered calmly. He was being cooperative, even if his behavior was a little odd.

"Can you be any more specific than that?" Carrie prodded.

Tom was eager to reel her in, questioning Trace made him uncomfortable. The man was a nervous computer nerd, not the hostile punk they were expecting. There was no need to treat him as a hostile suspect — Trace had let them in after all, even if Tom had to deliver a sub-par acting performance to do so.

"I could check my personal logs. I log all my data nowadays, and I store it in a physical key just to keep it secure. Do you remember the date?"

Tom waved Carrie off as she was checking her notes.

"Forget it, I can find it. His last tweet was about Net Guardian, right? He compared it to a guard dog. I was really interested in that. A guard dog is a sentient being, you know? It has feelings, can be social or reactive. You develop a relationship with a guard dog and over time it becomes a part of the family. When he said that it piqued my interest because I've been working on an article about whether or not people will do the same with Net Guardian drones — the people who can afford those drones, I mean. Will the wealthy and powerful accept these pieces of surveillance tech as family, watching themselves — and whoever else they have access to — as if they are unwilling actors in a reality television show? Who should we allow access to our homes as we familiarize — and I mean that literally, as in create families out of our surveillance technology?" Trace said this as he turned and booted up the four monitors that seemed to make up his primary computer.

The man spoke as if whole paragraphs were one sentence. Tom needed all of his attention just to follow along. He knew he should've had an extra coffee before all of this. Tom made a mental note to start interrupting if Trace was turning purple.

"Aha! Here we are. I tweeted at him. I wrote, 'curious', hoping that he would reply, but he never did. At the time I found it strange. It doesn't take much to set Gordon Light on an internet rant. In fact, he didn't respond to anyone on his feed, so clearly must have been killed shortly after this tweet." Trace continued clicking through his feed — he really did record everything. All of his internet activity, down to the IP address, was logged and timestamped.

Tom was taken aback by how thorough it was, then again if Trace Stuart was trying to avoid another trip to Rikers, proving that his internet activity was not a public danger was one way to do it.

"The tweet is geo-stamped with my current IP address. You can confirm if you like, though I do usually use a VPN in this location." Trace turned back to the detectives with a satisfied grin.

"That's not enough of an alibi for us, you're a computer hacker for all I know you used… something to change the location on it, so it says you're in Brooklyn when you were really up in Midtown." Tom was not sure of what he said at all, but it seemed like something that might be right.

"I suppose the fact I live alone isn't much of an alibi either. I suppose you both would prefer it if we did live in a surveillance state — it would make the whereabouts of your suspects much easier to trace. I went across the street to buy a Mountain Dew last night, and I know for a fact that the bodega across the street has security cameras. Usually, I hide my face, I have a sweater that zips almost all the way up, but every time I went in there, the owner thought I was about to rob the place, so I stopped doing that. I bet you can ask him for the tape," Trace said, very matter of fact. "I just got out of jail. I don't want to go back there."

"We know, we talked to your parole officer, he said you've been very careful to abide by all the conditions of your parole, and that you were let out early thanks to good behavior," Carrie said.

"I kept my head down when I was in there. Helped a couple of inmates with their computer stuff — a lot of them have been in the prison system for so long that they don't know how to use email. None of them knows how to be secure online — you know you should never give out your birthdate, right? Your birthdate is gold to anyone who might want to steal your identity. I'm not one of them, that's not my mo — in case you were wondering."

Tom was beginning to think this guy was not capable of murder at all. He was lanky and nervous, not aggressive or violent. The nerd, living in his parents' basement, content to play with action figures and dragon-themed games. Then again, the attack on Gordon Light wasn't a violent one. It was planned out to the smallest detail, by someone who was careful not to leave a single trace.

"What else can you tell us about the Net Guardian software?" Carrie asked, trying to keep the conversation on track.

"That it is extremely dangerous. Frankly, I'm glad the only people who can afford the complete system are the ultra-wealthy, they can all go to the guillotine as far as I see it. It's actively immoral to hold on to that much wealth when there are people who can barely afford to eat three square meals a day in your own city! Do you know how much a billion dollars is? If you stacked one billion individual dollar bills on top of each other, the stack would be 67.9 miles high. Miles! And think about how thin a single dollar bill is." Trace took a breath and turned to his computer.

Tom sat back on his futon, getting ready for the idealistic rant that was to come.

"I wrote an article about it for an online zine, you probably haven't heard of it, it's called Neo, it's an online ethical hacker zine. They published my article about wealth disparity and what kinds of actions ethical hackers can take to fight it. I also wrote an article about Net Guardian's potential expansion into a surveillance state. What we once thought of as CCTV — public law enforcement keeping an eye on crime and how they can and will use that footage against you in the court of law — will become privatized with laws being enforced based on your personal wealth. If you can afford to delete the information, it'll be impossible to ever charge you with a crime. It's already happening really with wealthy citizens hiring private security firms and services in order to separate themselves from general society. Net Guardian is just the beginning, but the motive of the company, of Cybermart, is to become so ubiquitous that they essentially become law enforcement. Obviously with Matt Penske at the top, taking bids on what should be ignored and what can be prosecuted. Your personal security is based on the tier you select and the subscription you pay for, and along with that the amount of accountability attributed to an individual is also calibrated against their household income or class. The poor won't be able to afford proof of their innocence, and the wealthy can afford to prosecute anyone they want!"

Tom and Carrie sat in stunned silence. Trace was staring at them like everything he said was obvious. Tom felt a little like a preschooler who had just heard the alphabet for the first time.

"So what you're saying is, you know a lot about the Net Guardian software and it's encryption?" Tom spoke slowly, not for Trace's benefit, but because he was still trying to absorb the idea of a world where Net Guardian stole his job.

"No. That's not what I said at all," Trace said, looking disappointed that the detectives couldn't follow his anarchistic ideas. "Imagine if I did have the key to that encryption? Every wealthy person on the server would have to account for their money, for starters, and that means revealing all their offshore accounts and what they're doing with that —" Trace cut himself off and looked down at the ground.

Without Carrie or Tom doing a single thing, Trace may have just incriminated himself. Carrie's eyes widened while Tom was still trying to parse through Trace's rant.

"I just mean that once you get rich enough — you know, like Gordon Light — you should be forced to donate the rest of your wealth. They call them the one percent for a reason, that's where the money is. Cybermart and Net Guardian churn out dangerous products for profit, they're a profit machine, not a technological innovator. They don't consider the impact of their product, only how it will benefit the so-called innovator at the top, Matt Penske." Trace was calmer, thinking about his words more. The excited energy he had when the detectives first arrived was tempered with his desire to never see the inside of a jail cell ever again.

"Eat the rich," Tom said, nodding at Trace.

Trace stared back at him, unsure of how to react.

"It's too bad no one reads that zine you're talking about. It sounds like you're trying to tell people Net Guardian might not be as secure or safe as they thought."

Trace stopped talking. He looked between Carrie and Tom, as if he was trying to read their minds.

"I have some work to do," he said as he turned in his chair, "I work as a web developer for a couple of charities. You can check that with my parole officer. You guys know the way out, it's not exactly a maze."

Tom and Carrie looked at each other, should they spin him back around or bring him down to the precinct?

Carrie shook her head and mouthed, "Not enough," to Tom.

"Trace we may need to ask you a few more questions," Carrie said, "can you do that later?"

"Nope. Sorry, I'm on a deadline, gotta deliver this code by the end of the day. Frankly this meeting has got me behind on my schedule." Trace wasn't typing but wouldn't turn back around to the detectives.

Tom held Carrie back from saying anything else, they weren't going to get much farther now. If they continued down this path they would be in danger of alienating Trace — so far the only viable suspect they had in this case.

"Thanks, Trace. We'll be in touch," he said.

Carrie waved into a darkened monitor at Trace.

They turned the corner and exited his small Brooklyn basement. Tom kept thinking about Trace's comment that his apartment wasn't exactly a maze — could it be he was comparing his apartment to Gordon Light's excessive and confusing penthouse?

Tom and Carrie walked up the basement steps to the street in silence, each trying to process what just happened. They stopped at the car, Carrie looking at her notebook.

"I didn't write a single thing except that a billion dollar bills is 67.9 miles high," she said.

"When did he say that?" Tom asked, the interview was already disappearing into a confused fog in his memory.

"After he said billionaires are immoral but before he started talking about a private surveillance state."

"Were you actually able to follow him?" Tom asked.

Carrie opened her mouth and closed it, looking back down at her notebook. "Nope."

"Are we going to lose our jobs to Cybermart?" Tom asked.

"It sure sounds like it," Carrie added.

She walked over to the driver's side and Tom slid in beside her. Was Trace Stuart really their guy? He seemed too awkward to be a killer, yet when he started talking about the one percent he became so passionate about how horrible they were for society. Still Tom couldn't get over the fact that the tall skinny man they met with could ever be violent enough to become a killer.

In a case like this one, what did a killer even look like?

ELEVEN

CARRIE

Carrie's head hadn't stopped spinning since the meeting with Trace Stuart. She had never felt more confused and enraged at the same time, and she didn't even know what she was enraged about.

Eat the rich? Down with the one percent? But also the only way to survive in the world was to delete all your information and escape to a cabin in the woods or a very secure basement apartment in Brooklyn.

When Carrie felt overwhelmed, she liked to do research. The note-taking of cold, hard, facts calmed her down, so when she returned to the office after a much longer meeting than she expected, Carrie decided to investigate Trace's background. He had done a good enough job of eliminating himself from the internet, but not so much from the NYPD database. There she saw his full name — Trace Worthington Stuart— his date of birth — April 12, 1984 — and exactly why he was sent to jail for seven years — releasing the names of wealthy donors to the campaign of Andrew Willinger, a senator who was known for his corrupt and racist administration who was later forced out of office after assaulting an assistant on camera. The case was determined to be a violation of privacy, stalking, and trespassing but, as Carrie suspected, Stuart negotiated a plea that landed him in Rikers for seven years.

While he was at Rikers, he worked various prison jobs from laundry to commissary attendant, and he had the same cellmate for the majority of his time at Rikers. Carrie wasn't too surprised at that, a man like Trace likely kept his head down and waited until his time was up. His audience was online, there was no reason for him to make his socially subversive mark in the prison yard. Those guys didn't need anyone else telling them how unfair the system was. Carrie kept tapping along on his file — rarely admitted to the infirmary, points for good behavior and — something else that made Carrie stop and sit up. She looked around the precinct, most people were gone for the day.

"Hey, Detective Spade, have you seen Tom around?" she asked Spade as he walked past her desk.

"Not for a couple of hours, he left around the time you opened your laptop."

For once, Carrie was relieved she couldn't find Tom. She scrolled back through Trace Stuart's file — Carrie knew she'd seen it. Tracey's six-year long cellmate was the one and only Sonny Elway; notorious womanizer and con-man — and Tom's estranged father. Sonny had been out of the picture for most of Tom's life, despite the few visits he made to the old man. Tom didn't like to talk about him. He'd gone to prison for racketeering, and even though he was a nonviolent offender, he was still put away for the rest of his life.

Sonny Elway was by all accounts a talented con artist. Tom always grumbled that his dad could have put his skills to good use as an entrepreneur, a lawyer, a salesman, or anything else that didn't involve cheating lonely (and horny) widows out of their inherited fortunes. Sonny Elway's great downfall came in the form of one billionaire's widow — Penny Von Unwerth. The woman was a jealous maniac which Sonny hadn't counted on. Because of that, she kept tabs on him in a way that none of his former girlfriends had, so when she realized that her money was going toward someone else's five-star hotel bill, she brought down the law on Sonny like no one had before. Moral of the story — never cheat the rich because they always win.

Carrie wasn't sure where to go with this. She had never met Sonny, but from what Tom told her, he was an absolute maestro when it came to a charming word. Sonny knew how to get close to people better than anyone else, he was an expert at making people feel comfortable enough to trust him. If he really was Trace Stuart's cellmate for six years, he definitely knew more about the hacker than anyone else Tom or Carrie would find. She knew Tom's relationship with his dad was strained. The two didn't talk unless Sonny needed money for the canteen or a favor from his cop son. Tom hated how much they looked alike and even though it came in handy, he resented the fact that he inherited his father's silver tongue. Carrie knew that if Trace Stuart was their top suspect, they were eventually going to have to interview Sonny Elway.

But maybe that could wait. For now, she wrote the initials "S.E." in her notebook, closed her laptop, and left the precinct for the day.

Teresa Walden was exhausted. She thought when she retired from acting that she was done with reporters, paparazzi, the whole lot. This past year had brought it all back.

She installed the Net Guardian system to keep the outside world out, so she could retire in peace. Teresa was done with the film business and the whirlwind life of celebrity it invited. To keep the paparazzi off her lawn, she also installed pressure sensors under the grass that would go off if any intruders dared interrupt her peace. Of course, it also registered the racoons and rabbits that ran around her lawn, but so what? The job of the residential security was to protect citizens in the neighborhood and Teresa was a citizen of this neighborhood too — who cared if they were annoyed, it was their job to check in if her security alarm went off, and how were they to know if it was a rabbit or a page six photographer crawling across her lawn unless they came and checked it out? She wanted to know if some lone-wolf paparazzo was coming to take a photo of her without her makeup on, or if a thief was coming thinking he could pinch some of her awards, old costumes, or jewelry.

But the Net Guardian system betrayed Teresa. She'd opted for the highest tier, the one that granted her access to every new security innovation the company had; mobile cameras, and the brand-new drone camera option. She was told it would not record video; it would only have a livestream that could only be accessed by members of her security team. Even then, she would receive a notification when someone was watching the livestream and could kick them off if they weren't supposed to be watching. It sounded like the perfect set up for a woman who wanted to disappear from the world.

There had been problems from the start with cameras turning on and off at will. Her drone was the biggest problem, no matter how many times Teresa re-programmed it, the drone continued to act as if it had a mind of its own, flying into rooms it was programmed to avoid and following Teresa at her heels for most of the day. No matter how many times she had her assistant call or send an email, she couldn't get the company to pay attention to any of her complaints. She ought to have cancelled it then and there.

But Teresa felt she couldn't do that to Matt. Matt Penske had been one of many men who claimed to be in love with her. Teresa was a gorgeous woman, tall and curvy, confident enough to let her hair go grey. At 48, she had long silver hair that women paid hundreds to duplicate at their colorists. Penske had been charmed by Teresa's blue eyes, but she found him to be a little plain, and a bit vain. Penske always insisted he had never visited a plastic surgeon, but he had the tight face of someone who had regular Botox visits and at least one facelift.

Among other things, Teresa just couldn't bear the thought that her boyfriend would be more vain than she was!

Penske sent flowers, chocolates, and even sent lingerie at one point! The more he tried, the more Teresa was turned off. It wasn't attractive when a man couldn't take no for an answer. She confronted Penske about his unwanted advances and he threw the temper tantrum that Teresa had expected — she had worked with enough Hollywood producers and billionaire film investors that she knew the type. The kind of man who wasn't used to people saying no to him. Once he calmed down, Teresa flattered him, claiming the real reason she had to cut it off was that she could never compete with Cybermart and his intense working lifestyle. He sent her a bouquet to apologize, and their friendship grew as they bumped into each other frequently at restaurants in the city.

When Teresa mentioned to him she was sick of the city life and was considering a move to the country, Matt Penske suggested the Net Guardian system.

"The police out there are overworked and underpaid. They won't come calling when you need it, or they'll get sick of you in a minute. You need something more innovative than an ancient phone line at a precinct to keep the crazies out." Little did she know, she had just invited the crazies in.

Matt Penske needed to screen his employees better when he hired them, Teresa was sure that the team he'd sent to install the system was spying on her and releasing details of her home life to the tabloids. It was a cheap and easy way for them to make money, at her expense! For the most part it was just a nuisance. After all, Teresa's life was now all about her yoga practice and reading the latest bestseller and there weren't very many secrets to sell — but that didn't mean she was fair game!

Teresa had finally had enough. The Net Guardian drone had followed her into her dressing room, its red recording light blinking away. Teresa checked the app on her phone, and it didn't even register the livestream – meaning someone at Cybermart was watching her. Teresa screamed, running into her bathroom and slamming the door in front of the drone. From her phone, she tried deactivating the drone, but something — or someone — else was controlling it. She called her lawyer from the bathroom and immediately started legal proceedings against Net Guardian, and Cybermart, and even Matt Penske who had persuaded her to get the damn thing in the first place. The last thing Teresa needed was a paparazzo in her own home — and in her dressing room no less!

So, it was safe to say, Teresa was not having the easiest first year of retirement. The case was going on and on with Cybermart refusing to release the footage she knew they had, citing something about "setting a precedent," and Teresa's lawyers were running out of ideas on how to force the company's hand. Penske had blown up in court a few times, claiming that Teresa was accusing him of indecent behavior, but he obviously misunderstood. Teresa included Penske in the lawsuit because it was his company. If one of his employees was abusing the Net Guardian system, he ought to take responsibility. But of course, billionaires of Matt Penske's stature never took personal responsibility. He had even managed the tightest gag order on the proceedings Teresa Walden had ever heard of. Even her personal security team was having a hard time accessing the files and passing them along to Teresa's legal team.

Teresa catalogued every piece of Net Guardian technology in her home, tore it out of the wall — well, had her handyman tear it out of the wall — and boxed it up, ready to return it. She wasn't even planning on asking for her subscription payments back, but didn't find an address for the company. Her plan was to send the whole thing back to Penske, and he could deal with it.

Maybe she'd write a note reminding him to fire the bastard who was watching her and call it a day. It wasn't Penske's fault after all, sure, she named him on the lawsuit, but that was more of a formality. As the founder of Cybermart, he needed to know what was going on under his thumb. Penske could be such a baby. Maybe Teresa would add a pacifier to the box — one that she bought off of Cybermart, of course.

Teresa decided she'd wash the day away with a bath. She had spent a fortune renovating her primary bathroom to include a gorgeous bath, fitting it into a beautiful bay window overlooking the back of her estate. The jacuzzi tub was surrounded by some of her favourite plants and flowers — hanging pathos, jasmine, even a small lemon tree. It truly was Teresa's sanctuary.

It's no wonder she didn't see the drone outside her window.

TWELVE

CARRIE

Carrie drove up Teresa Walden's driveway in awe. It was the kind of house you saw in movies, sprawling lawns and completely secluded from the outside world. She had dated an actor once, very briefly, and this was definitely not the kind of place he lived in. Then again, Teresa Walden was a legend. The Broadway marquees dimmed when news of her death reached the public.

There was already a sprawling obituary online, and Carrie's local movie theater was already changing their screening schedule to accommodate a retrospective of Teresa Walden's films.

"Kinda exciting, huh? Could be a new lead," Carrie said to Tom, who had been silent since they got the news, and started driving up to Teresa's estate.

Tom had spent a few days reading Trace's articles on Neo and was turning into a bit of an anarchist himself.

Carrie couldn't imagine how it would feel for Tom to have to face this kind of wealth all day, especially during this investigation. Carrie grew up not wanting for anything, in a comfortable middle-class household; Tom grew up bouncing between guardians without much supervision after his father was sent to prison by a billionaire's widow. Neither was anywhere near the kind of displays of wealth they had seen lately, but since that interview with Trace it looked like it was affecting Tom differently. He was angrier than usual, a little more reckless.

Carrie pulled up to the door and waved to the coroner, Dr. Neils, who was talking to a middle-aged man wearing what looked to be an expensive suit. The detectives got out of the car and the coroner came over to them.

"What have you got?" Carrie asked.

"Honestly? Not much. She was shot in the head, looks like it was decently close range, but there are no signs of a struggle or of any intruders into the house."

"Who found her?"

"That guy," he said, pointing his thumb at the man in the suit, "her lawyer. They had a meeting this morning. When she didn't answer the door, he went looking for her. I'll leave it up to you guys to ask him any further questions."

"How many times was she shot?" Tom asked.

"Just once, right between the brows. Can't quite figure out how they did it. She was in the bath, which is nestled in a bay window, and her body was facing out, toward the window. To have shot her at that angle, the perpetrator would have had to be above her, so above the second level of the house."

"So they either shot her from the roof or using a ladder on the lawn."

"Exactly, but local law enforcement told us Walden had pressure sensors on her lawn that went off for the smallest thing, it's really pretty ingenious, if you ask me," Dr. Neils continued. "Anyway, the security company said they didn't get any calls last night."

"Maybe the ladder didn't set off the alarm?" Carrie said.

"Nope." Dr. Neils shook his head. "The Head of Security told me her lawn sensors went off if a racoon went over her lawn. I doubt a ladder would be able to avoid that."

"If it happened frequently enough, they might have been ignoring her calls," Tom suggested.

"I don't know, that's for you guys to figure out. I'm just here to investigate the body, and the body was shot, likely from outside, from a close range, and the perpetrator was above the victim. Anyway, better get back to it." Dr. Neils walked off to talk to one of his assistants.

"Just like Gordon Light," Carrie said, turning to Tom.

But Tom was already halfway over to the bathroom window, testing the sensors on the lawn by jumping up and down. A local security guard, one who had been tasked with securing the scene, was running over to Tom, waving his arms. The two started having an argument about the lawn, causing Carrie to run over and break them up.

"I just want to see how much pressure it needs!" Tom was saying.

"It doesn't need any pressure! We get calls from this thing about twenty times a day, it's usually a racoon. Trust me," the security guard said.

"So it's safe to say you guys probably ignore most of the calls coming from this house?"

That got the guard a little prickly. "Unfortunately we don't have the manpower you cops do in Manhattan, so, no. Instead, we check with her private security team first, who usually check their security feed. Lately, the whole process takes a little longer."

"Why is that?" asked Tom.

The guard looked suspicious. He clearly told them something they were supposed to know. "She got a new security system; they haven't worked all the kinks out yet."

Carrie and Tom looked at each other.

"Why did she get a new security system?" Tom asked.

The guard looked them both in the eyes. He took a deep breath, and then looked around. "It's hush-hush, you understand? Ms. Walden was using one of those Net Guardian systems from Cybermart, but apparently she soured on the whole thing."

"That sounds pretty dramatic," Carrie said.

"I guess if you're suing a company, you might not be as keen to use their product." The guard said.

Carrie and Tom looked at each other — the Net Guardian system, yet again.

"Do you know why she was suing?" Carrie asked.

"You didn't hear it from me. As far as you're concerned, this conversation ended when I told your partner here to stop jumping on the lawn like a maniac."

"Sure."

"Hardly like a maniac, if you ask me," Tom muttered.

Carrie and the cop ignored him.

"She said she had a stalker at Net Guardian. The drone was following her around the house, recording when it wasn't supposed to. I asked one of her personal security guards, and he says the footage wasn't appearing on the server. She kept talking about some crazy fan at the company using his access, but if you ask me she was a paranoid lady who thought the world was after her."

The murder of Teresa Walden was oddly similar to that of Gordon Light's. Ultra-rich, privileged, famous; shot in their own home, near a window; shot from an angle that seems impossible; claiming a Net Guardian drone seemed to be under a stranger's control. Was it just a coincidence? Or was it a pattern?

"I'll go talk to the lawyer," Tom said, walking off.

Carrie nodded at the residential guard who walked back to his car. She decided to go inside and take a look at the scene. Teresa Walden's house was extravagant, it had everything you could want and more that you never thought of. If Carrie was a retired actress-turned-recluse, she'd probably deck her house out in the same way. There was a library, a small pool that had a feature that let you swim against the current, a spa room, multiple bedrooms, and even an empty room that looked like it could be a banquet hall.

As Carrie walked through all the rooms in the house she could see where the Net Guardian cameras used to be. High up where the wall met the ceiling, only noticeable because the cameras had been hastily torn from their bases and the cords were hanging down. They were placed in the same way as they had been in Gordon Light's apartment because, Carrie assumed, it was the best spot to place a camera so it would get a view of the whole space while not being an eyesore. The house was pristine otherwise, if it was a Robin Hood operation, the attackers were either really subtle or unsuccessful.

Carrie finally wound her way up to the bathroom. Teresa Walden's body had been removed, but she could see the slight blood splatter from where she had been shot. The bathroom itself was fit for a queen — and only a queen could afford such an enormous bathroom. With its giant jacuzzi tub, bay window, and multitude of plants the place felt more like a second small spa than a place to shower and brush your teeth. It may have just been Trace Stuart's influence, but Carrie felt disgusted at the display of wealth. Not to mention how secretive this all was, when the detectives turned into the gated community from the country highway, Carrie would never have guessed that these large estates were what lay beyond the trees. What was it about rich people hiding their money in plain sight? It reminded her of Eastern Yards, the ultra-luxury condo building that was in the middle of a bustling city yet was surrounded by a moat of security guards and secrecy.

Carrie shook her head to get Trace Stuart's voice out of there and continued with her investigation. The house was pristine, even after Dr. Neils and his team, and local law enforcement had been through, so she guessed Teresa Walden was alone the night she died. The window beside the bathtub was locked, so if there was a robbery, the attacker didn't try to use the window after shooting the victim. So far all of the windows Carrie had come across were locked from the inside — so either the killer locked himself in and then managed to sneak out undetected or he never entered in the first place. That narrowed down potential suspects to someone who had knowledge of Teresa Walden's new security system, and if what the residential security guard said was true, he probably had access to the old system as well.

Carrie exited the bathroom and started looking around the house for alternate points of entry. There was a wine cellar, but it didn't have a door that led directly outside. Could the killer have exited using the front door? If he shot Teresa from somewhere above the second floor bathroom, that must mean he was on the roof — Carrie thought back and remembered there was a fireplace in one of the downstairs sitting rooms.

She dashed back to the elaborate sitting room on the first floor. The room looked straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, all leather-bound books and mahogany shelves. Carrie checked the fireplace and found that it was real but hadn't been used in a long time. Teresa Walden had cleared out the usual logs and soot, replacing them with pillar candles, turning the fireplace into an aesthetic centerpiece for the room rather than a practical source of heat.

Carrie carefully cleared away the candles and lay on her back looking up at the chimney. A point of entry is a point of entry, and if she ruled out the windows this was the only other way in from the roof. Carrie shone her flashlight up the chimney, but the opening was too small, it would have been impossible for a human to crawl down. She couldn't be sure if it was built that way or as a result of years of ashy buildup, but even Carrie's petite frame would get stuck going down that chimney.

"Searching for Santa?" called a voice.

Carrie slid out from the chimney to find Tom standing near her feet.

"Yes, he told me to give you a piece of coal," she said, extending her hand, "Help me up?"

"Trying to get me on his nice list? No, thanks, Blake, I love my lumps of coal and wouldn't trade

them for the nicest horsey in the land."

Carrie rolled her eyes and stood up, dusting herself off. "So, did you learn anything from the lawyer?"

"Teresa Walden fits the victim profile — she was extremely rich. Not only did she have million-dollar contracts but sometime early on in her career someone told her to get a cut from the licensing and profits from her film. That means she just keeps making money every time someone buys an official poster or shirt, and any time the movie is sold to a streaming site, can you believe it! She's definitely one of the one percent Trace was railing on about," Tom reviewed. "She had no next of kin and is currently in the process of litigation."

"Litigation? Against Net Guardian?"

"He wouldn't say. He said there's a tight gag order on the whole proceedings. I reminded him that this is a murder investigation, we didn't stage this as part of the other claimant, but that made the lawyer more paranoid than anything. He clammed up after that."

Carrie rolled her eyes. Only Tom could be brash enough to try and shake down a lawyer, it's no wonder the suit started to think this whole thing was a conspiracy.

"We can get the DA to find the court proceedings, I'm sure. Anything else?"

"Like I said, the guy clammed up and walked away. Said he had to manage her estate or something? He seemed upset. Poor guy had never seen a dead body before. How about you? Find anything interesting in the house?" Tom asked.

"Not much that was useful. All the windows lock from the inside, so either our perp snuck in and walked out the front door, or he never entered in the first place." She flushed as Tom looked past her at the fireplace. "I was checking the chimney for disturbances. See if maybe that was a possible point of entry."

"Is anything missing?"

"Nothing that I could tell, but I'm guessing the lawyer will have a better picture of that once they start cataloguing her estate."

"And the scene of the crime?"

"Nothing, it's the same as Gordon Light. No footprints, no water tracked through the bathroom. Just a single bullet hole in the glass, a couple of feet above the jacuzzi. The perp could have been on the roof, but based on the angle, I find it hard to believe he could have sniped her from up there."

"We should check with her personal security company, see if they can give us anything. Although if the lawn sensors didn't pick anything up, I doubt the personal security guard in his little hut down the drive would have seen something."

"Let's just hope they'll be more cooperative than Becky Light."

The detectives sat on the couch for a second, Tom leaning back into the plush cushions. "Must be nice to have this kind of space, a luxury many of us cannot afford," he said bitterly.

Carrie weighed the idea of introducing Trace Stuart's jail time and his connection to Sonny Elway, but she wasn't sure this was the right time. There were too many breakables within Tom's reach.

"Do you think Trace Stuart was behind this?" Tom asked.

Carrie shrugged. "Two ultra-wealthy, somewhat famous people who died under very similar mysterious circumstances. Both of them sniped from outside the window of an ultra-exclusive, private home while relaxing alone. Killer didn't leave a single trace even though there were priceless valuables all over the home. If Trace Stuart wants to show the world that Net Guardian is dangerous to society and prove his contempt for the one percent, this is one way to do it."

"I was thinking that too. Trace's article mentions ways the Net Guardian system can be abused and manipulated and end up creating more of a danger for its users and society as a whole. His previous crime was exposing a governor's donor list — punishing the rich to draw attention to a social issue fits his criminal profile."

Carrie bit her tongue to keep from going down Trace Stuart's jail time and what he may or may not have learned from an ex-fraudster to the rich.

"True, but Neo isn't exactly a famous publication. The article didn't go viral the way Trace may have wanted it to, and sales of the Net Guardian don't seem to be slowing down," Carrie said. "I really need to get off their mailing list."

"You still get emails from them?"

"I get emails encouraging me to select a tier and start my Net Guardian set-up 'journey.' But in all the emails there are testimonies of current users and tickers that show how many Net Guardian systems are sold every week. Even the lowest most popular tier is still expensive but they give you so many financing options that it's hard to say no to them," Carrie said.

But Tom was not paying attention. Carrie knew that face, Tom was about to say something off the wall and frustratingly correct.

"What if Trace Stuart wanted to get the public's attention about his security concerns and set off the next French Revolution at the same time? Think about it. These victims have nothing in common except that they are super famous, super rich, and use Net Guardian. If you want to kill two birds with one stone —"

"—Hacking into famous Net Guardian accounts and murdering their users would be a good start."

THIRTEEN

TOM

“This gives us nothing."

"More than nothing."

"This gives us negative-nothing."

The detectives were once again sitting in Ned Bryant's office, watching a security tape that had been extremely difficult to acquire, and didn't answer any of their looming questions.

In the week since her murder, Carrie and Tom somehow managed to squeeze the tiniest bit of information from Teresa Walden's security team. Namely, that they were new — after she ditched the Net Guardian system Teresa Walden hired a different ultra-secure security company to monitor her property. This time with cameras that were installed outside her home. The detectives asked Teresa's legal team for the footage and initially they refused to turn it over. The leading attorney had been with Teresa for years and adopted her paranoid view of the world. He immediately assumed they would be selling the footage to "the tabloids" and it took the threat of a subpoena to get him to take Carrie and Tom's request for security footage seriously. Even then the process was going slowly as the lawyers wrapped up the litigation case they had been arguing on Teresa's behalf. Apparently wrapping up litigation after your client dies was more important than the detectives realized.

Eventually, they did send over footage from the night in question. It was pretty extensive, covering the whole property, and yet there was a blind spot right where they needed to see.

"Did you notice how none of the cameras point toward the house?" Tom asked.

"I did. I guess it shows enough of the grounds that if there was an intruder, you'd know about it. Mrs. Walden was obsessed with privacy, could be she didn't want anyone from the outside looking in," Carrie noted.

"Figures." This case — and Trace Stuart — were really getting at Tom's issues with authority and the upper class. Reading more and more of Trace Stuart's blog, online magazine articles, and forum posts had given Tom the vocabulary to explain why he had always kind of hated rich people and all forms of authority.

Earlier that day, the detectives were in Chief Gary Culbertson's office, trying to pitch why they should get a warrant for Trace Stuart's arrest, or at least get permission to hold him at the precinct for further questioning. "How can you prove this was more than a coincidence? The two victims didn't know each other, didn't live in the same building, didn't even run in the same social circle — they aren't even famous for the same reason! One was an internationally beloved actress and the other was some guy who complains about trees online," Culbertson roared.

"Sir, he didn't just complain about the trees, he imposed his classist ideas on the species of tree, assuming that better means more expensive which one can equate to a social construct that those with more money have better morals," Tom argued.

Culbertson got red in the face and Carrie stared at him wide-eyed.

"Elway I didn't call the pair of you in here to listen to some Commie propaganda. The fact is the evidence isn't there, no matter how to shake it, or what you may think about the morality of the victims. You are a detective working a homicide, not an anarchist at a punk rock show. In this world you need more than just an unseemly moral agenda to be accused of a crime," Culbertson said, just about bursting at his seams. "Now get out of my office and see if you can find me a motive that connects the victims to your suspect beyond his philosophical ideas."

The pair left Culbertson's office and Tom tried to ignore Carrie's shocked face staring up at him.

"What were you thinking, Tom? I mean I'm glad you're finally reading something and thinking more critically than usual, but did you really think Culbertson was going to go with a moral philosophical argument for Trace Stuart's arrest?" Carrie exclaimed.

"I had to try, okay? I knew you wouldn't. Trace knows how to clean up after himself, especially after getting caught once. I think he's a dangerous guy if he's turned to violence, and I knew you were just going to dance around the issue. Some crimes don't have the same hard motives as others, it's not always about getting money. Trace is a philosophical guy; he's going to commit a philosophical crime," Tom explained.

Carrie just shook her head. "C'mon, Ned Bryant says he has something for us."

"There is one little glitch I noticed while reviewing the video," Ned Bryant said, scrolling forward on the tape, "right there, do you see that?" Ned paused and pointed at the screen.

"No." The detectives looked at Ned, waiting for him to explain.

"Okay, let me blow that up and play it for you again." Ned tapped at his computer and replayed about a second of the video, before expectantly turning to the duo, "Did you see it this time?"

"I definitely saw something, Carrie did you see what I obviously saw which is exactly what Ned saw?" Tom said, turning to his partner.

She just looked at him and rolled her eyes.

"Ned, what are we supposed to be seeing?"

"Right here, there's a slight flicker," Ned paused the video and pointed at the middle of the screen, "if you blink you'll miss it."

Tom and Carrie leaned forward and after Ned played them the clip about ten times, Tom finally saw it.

"That's not a sniper, Ned, if anything it's the wind or maybe a racoon." Tom shook his head and got up. "Well, this was yet another waste of time. Carrie, are you coming?" Tom turned, but Carrie was still watching the video.

"I'll catch up to you in the meeting room, just give me five minutes," she said.

Tom left and felt a pang of jealousy. He didn't know where it was coming from and didn't want to admit that he just wanted Carrie to be on his side and storm out of Ned's office along with him. He walked down the hall to a small meeting room he and Carrie had taken over that held the few materials they had been able to collect from this case.

Tom sat and stared at the whiteboard they had set up, which held what little evidence they had. Both victims had been shot with the same caliber bullet so they knew it was likely the same gun used in both crimes. Of course without any other evidence, such as a murder weapon, there was no way to confirm that theory.

Also on the whiteboard was a list of what the two victims had in common. It was a very short list. All they had was that both victims were extremely rich; both victims lived in luxurious privacy and isolation; both were shot in the head through a window from an apparently impossible angle; both had the most expensive, innovative, and exclusive Net Guardian system available on the market.

Tom stared at the whiteboard until his vision went blurry, willing it to give him an answer. When he got tired of that, he checked the private messages of the profile he had created on an ethical hacker forum. His posts where he attempted to inflame the other hackers against Net Guardian were going nowhere. At best, people calmly agreed that Net Guardian could be dangerous, at worst people accused him of being a Cybermart narc. He checked the hallway waiting for Carrie before looking at his email, hoping to find an update from the DA's office.

In an uncharacteristic move, Carrie decided to skip the formalities and just get the DA to subpoena Gordon Light and Teresa Walden's computers. Becky Light had given them select private messages that Gordon had received, and that she felt were inflammatory or dangerous but there was still his other social media profiles as well as his email inbox to look over. Becky had stopped returning the detectives' calls, so the DA was the next best option. Teresa Walden had no next of kin for the detectives to ask permission, and they felt the lawyers would be more responsive to another member of the bar than they would be with two lowly detectives.

It was the 'I'll have our people call your people' approach, something the rich and famous were accustomed to. So far, nothing from the DA who called earlier in the day to mention that Mrs. Light was avoiding her phone calls as well — so much for being cooperative in an investigation.

Carrie finally walked into the room and sat down next to Tom, joining him in a staring contest with the evidence whiteboard.

"I went over that video with Ned again. I think it might have been a glitch on the tape or a racoon, as you said. For a second, I hoped it could be something more but…" Carrie trailed off.

"We have nothing except the ravings of a lunatic," Tom said.

Carrie turned to him with wide eyes. "We need to get you off of that forum, it's turning you into a weird, existential, anarchist." She continued, "Our theory of the case is workable — Trace hacks into the Net Guardian security systems and uses a combination of the mobile cameras and drones to map out the inside of the homes. He then either passes that information along to a sniper or he snipes his victims himself."

"But the angle of the shots are impossible, Carrie. Trace Stuart is not built to be a sniper, he'd look like a praying mantis bent over a gun."

"It can't be that hard for someone with Trace's connections in the cyber-world to find a sniper on the dark web."

Tom could tell that Carrie barely believed what she was saying, though she did have a point. If Trace wanted to start a class war he could easily recruit someone from the criminal underbelly of the internet to do his dirty work. Plus the guy had been in prison! Even if he only interacted with other non-violent offenders he'd still likely be able to ask around for someone willing to murder rich people without a trace left behind.

"If Gordon Light and Teresa Walden are this hard to trace, you can be sure whomever was hired to kill them is experienced in cleaning up his work. Carrie, if we go down this road I don't know if we're ever gonna get an arrest," he said.

"Do you have any better ideas? Any other leads? Your anonymous caller was sure about Trace Stuart, so we chased that down. Now you're not so sure? Why, Tom? I don't get it; do you not want to get an arrest on this one?" Carrie demanded.

"It's not that! It really isn't. I just wish we had more solid evidence tying the two murders together that's all. Trace turned on a dime to violence when he's never gone that route before, is there a reason why? Could he have been hacking into Net Guardian before and then realized the only way to get the public's attention was to start killing its famous users?" Tom was running through scenarios trying to reconcile what he knew about the case and his gut feeling that this was all more complicated than they thought.

"Since when was I the one throwing out the rule book?" Carrie asked.

Tom laughed to himself. They were both acting out of character. Carrie wanting to pursue a lead with weak supporting evidence and Tom saying they should hang back and gather more proof before proceeding, it was as if they had landed in a backwards dimension.

"Nothing about this case is normal. So maybe we don't act like it's a normal case. Maybe we need to look elsewhere for evidence and motive," Tom said, and to that Carrie looked away down at her notebook. Tom noticed the initials 'S.E.' in there and wondered what they were for. They were the same initials as… no. Tom shook his head, there's no way the person he was thinking of could be involved in this. That person was locked away where he couldn't do harm if he tried.

"Can we try Cybermart again? This time as police, not as customers in need of support. Maybe they can give us some insight into their encryption software or have evidence of a breech in security that has happened recently," Tom suggested.

"I think we'd have a better chance asking Becky Light to dinner," Carrie responded, but she did flip back to the page in her notebook with the phone number for Cybermart.

FOURTEEN

CARRIE

Just when it seemed they had formed a working theory of the case — that Trace Stuart had bypassed Net Guardian's encryption to spy on his victims before murdering them — Carrie and

Tom had to throw their theory out the window again. No evidence, no witnesses, one potential suspect, and no idea what his motives could be.

Carrie called up her brother Cal, who also worked in the FBI and had dealt with his fair share of cybercrime cases. She persuaded Tom to join her and Carl at the family home out on Long Island so she could get his opinion on what Trace Stuart was really capable of. Without giving away sensitive details fo the case, she asked if he'd ever had to deal with Cybermart before.

"Not directly, but I've heard they're a pain in the ass," Cal said.

"They are a pain in the ass. I've been on the phone with them trying to get an answer to a simple question — is it possible to crack the encryption on their software — and all I get is a lawyer's statement about 'trade secrets'," Carrie replied.

Cal laughed. "I can tell you that much — their encryption software is more than state of the art. It's completely unique in terms of how complex it is, intelligence agencies all over the place have been trying to get them to disclose the software for ages so they can use it themselves. To crack their encryption software you'd need a quantum computer — or so the nerds in our cyber division tell me."

Carrie sighed. "What on earth is a quantum computer?" She was getting tired of technological concepts that were beyond her understanding. Carrie was an intelligent woman, a talented cop, and it seemed the fact that she didn't want to waste her day staring at a screen was coming back to haunt her.

"A quantum computer is like a million computers on steroids, all running the same program at the same time. There's barely a handful in the country and they're probably all in research labs or private tech companies in some Silicon Valley vault. It uses quantum mechanics to make calculations so it's faster than anything else available in the cyber world."

"Can I get my hands on one?"

Cal just laughed, and Carrie took that as a no.

"Even if you had access to one, you'd need to write a software program that could crack Cybermart's encryption," he replied.

"So I would need a theoretical computer that only exists in science labs, and a theoretical software program to crack the encryption?" Carrie resisted the urge to groan, "What about a hacker, could he break into it?"

"That's possible, but he'd have to have been working at the encryption for who knows how long. Quantum computing would probably become as common as a laptop in the time it would take to break Cybermart's encryption systems."

"It's been done before — hacking Cybermart. Apparently a couple of security researchers and anarchist hackers have weaseled their way into the system."

Carrie jumped in her seat; she hadn't realized Carl was standing in the doorway right behind her. How long had he been listening to Carrie and Cal's conversation?

"Carl, don't do that, you scared the shit out of me," she said, turning back to Cal. "But is what he said true, Cal? Have there been hackers who've gotten into Cybermart's encryption?"

"I haven't heard of any. Carl what have you been doing down on the third floor? Have you become a hacker now?" Cal laughed, poking fun at his younger brother.

Carrie's face got hot — Cal ought to know better than that. Carl's only just gotten his life back on track, he didn't need his siblings teasing him. Carrie gave Cal a death stare and he put his hands up in surrender.

Carl patted Carrie on the shoulder to indicate that he was okay. "I spend a lot of time online, I read things, do research for whatever the boss needs doing. Found I enjoyed it while I was away from police work with no one but our little sister checking up on me." Carl winked at Carrie. "Besides, I like being up to date on all this new technology, unlike the two of you who can barely open a photo attachment in the family group chat."

The two siblings hung their head, it was true Cal and Carrie were somehow the two with the technological black thumbs.

"Sorry, Carl, I didn't mean it that way," Cal said.

Carl smirked and waved his apology aside.

"Boys, not to break up this lovely apology, but I have an actual problem. Is it possible to take over control of a Cybermart user's account or not?" Carrie did not have the time for her brothers to discover that they had emotions.

"Of course," they both said.

"For every piece of software out there, there's someone just waiting to hack into it," Cal said, "Besides…"

"What?" asked Carrie.

"I think I know what you're talking about," said Carl, in a more somber tone.

The two men paused. They knew how headstrong she was, that she would chase down any lead, no matter the personal risk. Even if they were proud of her, they were still her big brothers and she knew they didn't want to lead her down a trail that could end up getting her in trouble.

"There's a possibility," Carl said, breaking the silence, "that Cybermart built a backdoor into their systems."

Carrie's eyes widened, a backdoor was always a weak spot, whether it was in software or in the real world.

"It's either a back door or an encryption key. Either way, it's something that can expose all the traffic and files of all their systems which is why it's under tight guard. It can even expose the Net Guardian feeds. Very few people have access to it."

Carrie had to bite her tongue so she didn't give away that Net Guardian was exactly what she was investigating.

"As far as we know at the FBI, no one's found it yet. There haven't been any sales of Cybermart or Net Guardian software exploits on any of the major dark web marketplaces that we've been monitoring. If it does exist, I'm guessing it's on a need to know basis. You only get it if you absolutely must have it, otherwise it's in the hands of the company's lead software developer."

Carrie thought about what her brothers were saying. So far no one has exploited the Cybermart back door — at least, they hadn't bragged about exploiting the Cybermart back door. The murders were several weeks apart, long enough that the killer likely felt it was safe to use the exploit a second time. Cybermart would never report something like this to the police, so if a hacker had been discovered there's no way for Carrie to know about it without asking the company, and she knew they'd never tell her anything. Based on her investigation, Trace Stuart seemed to have enough motive to expose the rich and their reliance on Cybermart's security system, but he would have to have an ally within the company in order to attack them.

It's entirely possible that he wormed his way into one of Cybermart's computers — that was a thing hackers did, right? Trace wanted to throw stones at Cybermart's glass castle, why not attack it from the inside if he could?

Carrie's mom, Laurie, came in to call her kids to dinner. Carrie looked a lot like her mother, both women were petite with dark hair and eyes and delicate features. She was Carrie's father's second wife, but she'd bonded with her stepchildren before Carrie came along. She was fiercely protective of all of them, as if they had all come from the same womb. The boys went along, giving their mom a kiss on the cheek along the way. Carrie stayed behind for a moment, playing techno-gymnastics with Trace's motive and potential attacks.

"Carrie?" her mom said, "Are you planning on joining us?"

Carrie looked up. Her relationship with her mother had been strained since Carl had been involved with the Benny murders. According to Laurie, Carl would never have gotten into the whole mess if it weren't for the absolute loyalty that the NYPD demanded of its police officers. Whenever Carrie defended the NYPD and the camaraderie that came from working long hours with those around her, Laurie got angry and nervous. Carrie knew, deep down, it all came from a place of a mother's worry, but it still set her teeth on edge. She doubted her mom would worry this much if she was a man.

"I'm coming; I'll just be a sec." Carrie smiled at her mom, waiting until she turned back to the kitchen before she pulled out her phone. It was time to do what she had been putting off for a couple of weeks now, she had waited until she couldn't wait any longer.

Carrie texted Tom.

We need to talk.

FIFTEEN

TOM

Tom woke up to a text message that just said, "We need to talk. ASAP."

He ran through a list of women he had gone out with recently, trying to think of who would send such a message, and which one of them might be awake before 8 a.m. Tom rubbed his eyes and took a look at the message again, his heart racing — but it was just Carrie.

Carrie texting him early in the morning, in an unusually overdramatic way.

Carrie texting him early in the morning when she was going to see him at work later that day.

Carrie texting him, but not saying anything about the case.

Tom resisted the urge to hide under the sheets and hope Carrie forgot about texting him. Maybe she got drunk last night at her parent's house on Long Island with her brothers, and she drunk-texted him in the early hours of the morning?

Very unlikely, Tom thought as he looked at the message again and then realized she'd sent it much earlier than he'd thought. It had come in a little after seven the night before, but he'd missed it.

He decided he'd make his coffee before answering, at the very least, but just as he was pouring the beans into the filter, his phone rang. It was Carrie — the most impatient person he had ever met.

Tom answered, "If you were going to call me, why did you bother sending a text message?"

"You never texted back, so I wanted to make sure you saw it."

"I haven't even answered you yet, you'd know if I saw it when I answered you."

"True, but now I know you saw it because I called you, and it's obviously sooner than if I had waited for your reply."

"Carrie, it is 8 a.m."

"You say that like 8 a.m. is an unreasonably early time, I've been awake for at least two hours now."

"Yes, I remember Cathy Belway's morning routine. Took me weeks to get back to my sleep schedule, now what is this about?"

"I need to talk to you. It's urgent, can you meet me for coffee before work?"

Tom paused, staring at the bag of beans in front of him. "Throw in a croissant, and I'll come."

"Fine. Meet me at Café Milo."

Tom arrived forty-five minutes later, hair unbrushed and teeth unwashed. He considered doing his usual morning routine, but decided he'd rather not face another of Carrie's lectures about the benefits of waking up early. When he arrived, a cold coffee and croissant were waiting for him at a table across from Carrie, who was studying some notes she had prepared. What on earth could this be about?

"Can I order myself a new one of these?" Tom said, pointing at the frigid cup in front of him.

Carrie jumped when she saw him — since when was she nervous around Tom?

"Sure. I'll be here. Just, waiting for you," she said in an artificially cheery voice, smiling so hard Tom thought her teeth might break.

He gave her a thumbs up and went off to reorder his coffee. Every once in a while, Tom would look back and glance at Carrie, who would smile and wave like a maniac. Tom had to admit sometimes he thought it might be nice to always meet up with Carrie in the mornings, and as much as he claimed to be relieved to be living alone again, he missed waking up with his undercover wife, "Cathy Belway" at the break of dawn.

Tom sat down with his new coffee and waited for Carrie to begin.

"Hi, Tom."

"Hi, Carrie."

She cleared her throat. "This is hard to say, so I have prepared myself some notes and taking points in the hopes that it will go more smoothly."

Tom chuckled, relaxing a little into his chair. "Okay, Carrie, go ahead."

"It's about your father."

Tom's face clouded over. He immediately got up and left the coffee shop without another word.

Tom didn't like to talk about his father. There wasn't much of a reason to, since he hadn't been raised by the man; there was no proud fatherly figure in his life. When he was young, his mother had left him with his father to raise. Then not too long after that, his father was sent to prison. Tom was raised between the homes of somewhat-caring family members, and occasionally visited his father when curiosity or guilt got the better of him.

Sonny wasn't proud when his son graduated from the police academy. He didn't send cards on Tom's birthday. He didn't use the prison phone to check in on Tom to see how he was doing. Sonny Elway contacted Tom for one reason and one reason only — to ask for canteen money. Tom had fallen for his father's charming tricks one too many times, Sonny knew how to tug on someone's heartstrings and to him, Tom was just another mark. The last time they met was a few weeks before Tom was going undercover as "Ted Belway" with Carrie, to catch the Poison Blood Murderer. It seemed to Tom that Sonny didn't care, except for the fact that his only financial link to the outside world would be unavailable for a while.

Tom didn't appreciate being lured to a café to talk about his estranged father. So, he did what he always did — he shut down. He immediately went to the precinct and spent the rest of the day with his head down, either trying to find more evidence of animosity between Trace Stuart and the two victims; or trying to find out if the victims had any common enemies. Sometimes he could feel Carrie's eyes on him, and when he did, he made up an excuse and just took a walk around the precinct.

Carrie should have known better, he thought. He had told her all about his dad when they were undercover, not that she didn't know about him already. In the years since they'd been partners, he had rarely opened up about his childhood, until one night when they were investigating Dr. Poison — "Pointelle" Carrie's voice rang out in Tom's head —, and the connections his son might have had to the Poison Blood victims. Carrie opened up about the fact that she knew her dad was proud, but resentful that she was seen as a more competent officer than her brothers. Tom talked about how he'd welcome resentment or pride, just something other than convenience, when it came to his father's feelings about him. That night something changed about their relationship, and when Carrie brought up Sonny Elway, everything changed back.

A few nights later, Carrie showed up at Tom's apartment. Before he could close the door, she slipped her foot in, wedging her petite frame into his apartment.

"Carrie, you know how I feel about my dad."

"I do, and I respect it, but right now, I need you to hear me out. Your dad could be the difference of whether or not we get close enough to solve this case. Please, Tom, just listen."

Tom looked at Carrie's puppy-dog eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing, and Tom cracked. "Fine," he said.

Carrie smiled and continued into his apartment. "So this is your place, huh?"

Tom could feel her judging his futon couch, scratched up coffee table, and the mismatched color palette, and messy 'lived-in' look to the place.

"It's eccentric!" she exclaimed, ever the diplomat.

"Beer?" Tom asked.

Carrie nodded, and he threw her a can from the kitchen. Tom sat down opposite Carrie in his favorite armchair.

"Have you had that thing for a while?" Carrie asked.

"What makes you say that?"

"You've picked at the left side a lot," Carrie said, "you do the same thing at work when you're really focused on a case. Also, the side that is closest to the window looks like it's faded from the sunlight."

"Can you stop being a detective for one-second, Carrie?" Tom was annoyed, he didn't want to play games right now, not when they were about to talk about his least favorite subject.

"Sorry." She took a sip of her beer, Tom waited.

"As I said, we need to talk about your dad, which I know is a sensitive topic for you, but it's come to the point where — well if I don't tell you now you're just going to find out for yourself anyway since Trace Stuart is our prime suspect and honestly, I find it hard to believe that you haven't found out already since it was spelled out in his file after all, so I hope you've actually been doing research on Trace Stuart and not just diving into the rabbit hole of all those anarchist forums —"

"Wait, wait, Carrie, slow down," Tom interrupted. "What does my father have to do with Trace Stuart?"

"They were cellmates at Rikers for six years. Didn't you know that?"

Tom felt like he was frozen to his chair. All this time he had been researching Trace online but hadn't even thought to look at his official record. He'd just assumed he wouldn't find anything there, that the key to unlocking Trace Stuart's potential involvement lay in his abilities as a hacker.

"I'm floored," he said.

"Did your father ever mention Trace?" Carrie asked.

"Not once, not that I can remember. He never mentioned even having a cellmate, though it's obvious he would have had one."

"They were put together as non-violent offenders. Worked together in a few prison jobs as well."

Tom felt disappointed. He didn't know if he should feel he was guilty of never asking his dad about his life in prison, or to feel angry that in six years his dad never thought to share the most basic element of his life — the man sleeping in the bunk below him.

"Did Trace get the top bunk?" Tom muttered.

"Tom! Seriously, that is your takeaway from this?" Carrie scolded.

Tom laughed. "Just trying to lighten the mood." He got up and walked to the kitchen, cracking open another beer for himself, lost in the thought that he might have to talk to his dad. He knew that's what Carrie was gearing up for him to do — her little notepad with a script was sitting on his coffee table, and he could see Tom — visit? scrawled at the bottom. He took a sip and went back to his armchair.

"Ask."

"Ask what?"

"Carrie, just ask. We're both detectives, I know where this conversation is going. Besides, I can see your notes."

Carrie grabbed her notes and scrunched them into a ball. She took a swig of her beer and asked, "Tom, do you think you can talk to your dad and get some information about Trace Stuart?"

Tom thought about it. Sonny Elway was a liar, a cheat, and a thief, and you couldn't trust anything that came out of that man's mouth. But he also knew Tom would be able to get more out of his dad than if Carrie took it upon herself to go — which he knew she would do, since Carrie was the most stubborn person he had ever met.

"They spent so much time together, and you've said so yourself, your dad could get anyone to talk. In six years, Trace Stuart must have done some talking. He talked our ears bloody, and we barely prodded him, imagine what Sonny Elway would have gotten out of him." Carrie forced a chuckle, trying to make light of a tense situation.

"I need to think about it, Carrie. I know it seems like I'm being dramatic or stalling an already stalled investigation but⁠—"

"I get it. Dads are a special breed," she said. They finished their beers in silence. When Carrie was done, she cheered Tom and let herself out.

"I'll do it."

It was the next morning, Tom found Carrie in the small conference room they had taken over to review their victims and what little evidence they had. Tom walked in and saw Carrie staring at the whiteboard, willing it to give them something new. He knew then that she would only have told him about Sonny if it was a last resort.

Carrie turned to him. "Are you sure?"

Tom nodded, "You have to understand, my father is a liar. He'll probably give us a runaround that would make Cybermart jealous."

"I understand," Carrie said.

"And he'll want to negotiate. He always wants to negotiate," Tom added.

"I understand that too. Everything is a transaction to him."

"You can't trust what he says. Never take anything at face value."

Carrie just nodded.

Tom looked her in the eyes, needing the reassurance that this was the only way to move forward.

"Tom, take a look at this whiteboard. Two victims, with barely anything tying them together, zero cooperation from Cybermart, and we're pulling teeth with Becky Light and Teresa Walden's estate. No physical evidence at the scene, and an anarchist hacker more likely to confess to a philosophy than a crime. We need Sonny Elway. We need Sonny to get to Trace. You just have to remember, I'll be here in case you need someone to slap you across the face and remind you that you're a detective and my ass is on the line right next to yours, you understand?"

At that, Tom had to laugh.

"I need to make a phone call. I'll be right back. Hey, maybe we can crack this case before I even get to see him!" Tom gave Carrie a finger-gun salute as he backed out of the room, off to make an appointment on Rikers Island.

SIXTEEN

TOM

“This is the Q100 to Limited Long Island City, Queens Plaza. This stop is Hazen St. 19th Avenue. Next stop is, Rikers Island."

Tom rode the bus to Rikers alone. It was a long ride, so he brought a book but couldn't focus on it. He just looked at his phone, but he was barely registering what he read or saw. Now that he was on the bus, he was having second thoughts about coming at all. Everything with Sonny Elway was a transaction, he knew this wouldn't be the only visit to Rikers he'd have to make in the name of the investigation. Carrie had offered to come with him, for moral support or just to keep Sonny on track, but Tom refused. This first visit had to be alone, on his own terms, or else his dad wouldn't talk at all. He pre-registered for his appointment as a civilian — just a son off to meet with his dad. Sonny Elway would drag things out as long as he possibly could, so Tom took the rest of the day off.

"Maybe he does this because he misses you. He doesn't have any other family visiting him, it must be hard not to see his son either," Carrie had offered as an explanation for his father's calls and demands.

Tom just shrugged. Maybe she was right, maybe his dad just needed someone to talk to, but at the end of the day that's no way to treat your son. Tom wasn't an ATM, and if Sonny had been a better dad then maybe he wouldn't feel as if every visit was physically painful. Then again, if Sonny had been a better dad, maybe he wouldn't be in jail in the first place.

The bus to Rikers always made Tom feel sad, and question his career as a cop. There were one too many kids on their way to visit a parent who had been torn away from their lives. He knew how they felt — not having your dad around for Father's Day or parent-teacher conferences. Looking out into the audience at a school play and not seeing a familiar, proud face. He often struggled with the guilt of putting their dads in there, he knew what it was like to grow up without a parental figure in your life and how much instability it could cause. Tom turned back to his phone. Better not to think about that right now.

At the second last stop the bus cleared off leaving a few scattered families; wives, girlfriends, and old buddies all of whom were visiting an incarcerated loved one. Everyone knew where they were going, at this point on the ride up you stopped making eye contact with each other. Tom stared hard out the window.

When they got off the bus, he got on another that took him to the building his dad was in. Slowly Tom was taken through the long process of checking in, getting a visitor's badge, and ushered into the waiting room. He settled into the uncomfortable plastic chair, knowing it would take a while. They liked to make you wait.

An hour later the receptionist called out, "Sonny Elway."

Tom was lost in an article on Neo and didn't even hear the name being called. She had to call out twice before he realized — she was saying his dad's name. It was Tom's turn up to bat.

"Sorry, it's me, I'm Sonny Elway. Well, I'm not Sonny Elway, I'm his son. I'm Tom, how are you? I'm Tom Elway with the NYPD, but I'm not here in an official capacity, Sonny Elway is my dad," Tom rambled at the bored looking receptionist.

She just stared at him. "You can go through the door and sit at booth number seven. The inmate will join you." The receptionist didn't have the patience for anyone too nervous to admit they were at a prison, visiting an inmate.

Tom gulped and smiled at the receptionist before going through the door. He sat down at booth number seven, trying not to look around or listen in on anyone else's conversation. Finally, after what felt like another hour had gone by, he heard a loud buzz and the sound of a deadbolt unlocking.

His father was led in by a guard and sat down at the seat across from Tom. Father and son looked at each other in the glass, until finally Sonny Elway picked up the receiver on his end.

Sonny Elway had always been a very handsome man. He was sixty now, coming up on the age of the women he used to swindle out of their money, and his looks showed no sign of slowing down. Tom always felt a little uncomfortable about how much they looked alike — both were tall and distinguished looking, with short-cropped red hair and a square jaw. Even in an orange jumpsuit he looked the way Tom might have if he had gone to finishing school instead of an overcrowded high school on the wrong side of the tracks. Pretty impressive considering Sonny Elway had been incarcerated for the better part of the past thirty years.

Tom picked up the receiver on his side of the glass.

"You've got to stop visiting so often, son. They're gonna start thinking you belong on the other side of the glass." Sonny's sarcasm was unmatched by anyone, except maybe Carrie.

Tom tried to laugh it off. "You're right. You're probably bored of me by now."

Sonny Elway laughed, harder than the joke deserved, in Tom's opinion. "How are you, son, what is this a combination Father's Day and birthday visit?"

"Can't forget Christmas and Easter," Tom replied, trying to get comfortable.

"Very true. So, what's the occasion? You getting married or something?" Sonny asked.

"No, just a casual visit. I haven't seen you in a while, wanted to talk, make sure they're treating you okay in here." Tom tried to pass it off as casually as possible, but Sonny was smarter than that.

He squinted his eyes and looked at his son, causing Tom to shift in his seat. "Me? Same as always. Wake up at the same time, eat the same shit food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, work a prison job — one that pays cents on the dollar compared to minimum wage in this country — take a stroll through the prison yard, maybe watch some bad television in the prison common room, and then get sent to bed ready to do the same thing over again the next day." Sonny Elway sounded a little more bitter than usual, but Tom took the rant as an opportunity to change the subject from his sudden visit to the covert reason for his visit — Trace Stuart.

"It's practically criminal what they pay you. The prisons in this country are making millions off the backs of inmates, just as billionaires are accruing wealth off the backs of minimum wage workers across the country. The rich get richer while the poor get poorer, right?" Tom asked.

He may have laid it on a little too thick, it caused Sonny to squint even further, scrutinizing his son. Tom regretted it immediately, he probably went a little too far with the Trace Stuart anti-establishment rhetoric.

"Where'd you read all that?" Sonny inquired.

"Some blog online. You ever hear of Trace Stuart? He's an anarchist hacker, kind of a Robin Hood figure."

Sonny's smile froze. Tom stared at his dad, knowing he had just blown his cover. It was hard to out-con a con man, especially when you were staring at each other through a sheet of reinforced glass.

"Yeah, I've heard of Trace. What about him?" Sonny said.

"He's got some interesting ideas. Do you agree?" Tom asked, trying to be as careful as he could.

"It's all stuff we've heard before. The rich make their money off the back of the poor, the government is gonna turn into a surveillance state if we're not careful, politicians are corrupt, blah, blah, blah."

Father and son were in a stand-off. Both were trying to draw out information without showing their hand, neither was willing to come out and say what they meant. Sonny wanted to draw out Tom's real motivations for his visit, and Tom was doing his best to stay in control of the situation.

"I just think his philosophy is pretty interesting. Especially with that Cybermart guy, Matt Penske, and that new security system he's been selling, the Net Guardian. I think Trace Stuart brings up some good points — in his articles, that is." Tom could tell he was losing his grasp on the situation.

Sonny's smile dropped from his face. "Matt Penske is a little rich kid who's had everything handed to him on a silver spoon. He hasn't invented anything, the innovations at his company are coming from the engineers, designers, and tech geniuses at his company — the people who don't always agree with his incessant need to push untested tech to market. They can't reign him in, he blows their secrets before they've even got a prototype working. He's yet another billionaire who wants to collect and hoard wealth; profits over people, as they say." Sonny's smile spread across his face again, as he saw Tom recognize Trace Stuart's rhetoric coming out of his mouth. "Or so I've heard."

Tom wanted to crawl back in to bed and start the day all over again. He should have known, he couldn't out-con a con man. He definitely had information that the detectives could use in the Net Guardian investigation, but if Tom didn't step back, he knew his father would take the opportunity to walk all over him.

"Enough about that, I didn't come here to have an ideological discussion about class warfare. Have I told you I finally replaced that old armchair, I went to Ikea yesterday and got a new one, they're supposed to deliver it sometimes this weekend⁠—"

"Cut the crap, Tom. You've been avoiding my phone calls for six months, don't think I somehow forgot. Now you show up out-of-the-blue asking about Trace Stuart. I know you, kid, you're angling for something, and you're just too chicken to come out and say it." Sonny was all business now that he knew what this visit was about.

"Fine. I'm working on a case and Trace Stuart is our prime suspect, what can you tell me about the guy?"

If Sonny wanted to skip the formalities, Tom was more than happy to oblige.

"Don't you work homicide? Or have they finally realized you've been rotting your brain at a computer your whole life and transferred you?"

"No, I'm still in homicide. We think he's the one behind a series of tech-related murders."

Sonny Elway looked confused. "Trace Stuart? Tall, lanky, wide puppy dog eyes, looks like he's never seen the sun — that Trace Stuart?"

"Yes," Tom confirmed, "that Trace Stuart, what can you tell me about him?"

Sonny leaned back in his chair, calculating what Tom might be able to do in exchange for his valuable information. "What do you need to know about him?"

"Was he ever violent while in prison?"

Sonny Elway just stared at Tom.

"Did he ever talk about Cybermart, or a wide-scale operation to hack into Cybermart's network?"

Sonny Elway continued to stare at Tom.

"Does Trace Stuart have a network of hackers who work for him, or with him, with the ultimate goal of breaking down the financial networks of the ultra-rich?"

Sonny just smiled.

"Do you have anything to say, or are you just amused by how desperate I am?" Tom asked, exasperated that he couldn't get anything more out of dear old dad.

"Did someone else write these questions, or are you coming up with them yourself?"

Tom almost threw the phone against the glass and left. He was right, Carrie wrote a series of questions for Tom to follow up with his dad, but Tom decided to throw her careful, methodical questions out the window and try to butter up his dad. That plan went straight down the drain, so Tom was trying to remember all of Carrie's questions so he could get this visit over and done with.

"That isn't the point, Dad."

"What? They're good questions, can't a father be proud?" Sonny said, smiling. He was sizing Tom up, the stench of desperation was filling the room, and Tom knew exactly what was coming next.

"What do you want?" Tom said.

"Well, Thomas, now that you ask, there is something I've been dreaming about lately. I am an old man. Dealing with these young guys coming through, all of them trying to make their mark, it makes me tired. I'm just here to serve my time, not to get into a knife fight with some twenty-five-year-old who thinks it'll get him some kind of credibility." Sonny began to weave his web of charisma. "I want to spend my golden years somewhere where I don't have to look over my shoulder for the actual violent guys and I can relax. Maybe play some bocce, breathe air that isn't coming off the LaGuardia tarmac, you know what I mean?"

Tom sighed. "Where do you want to go, Dad?"

"Otisville."

"The white-collar prison in the Catskills?"

"Exactly, I want to spend the rest of my days in the lap of luxury — relative to my condition, of course. If anything, it'll be better for you, you can make a weekend of it! Y'know, twice a year when you do visit you can have a weekend in the Catskills rather than having to take the Q100 for an hour here and back."

Tom thought about it. If he was being honest, the idea of his dad in a white-collar prison made him feel a little better than fending off the violent offenders at Rikers. The man was a liar and a cheat, but he was still his dad, he was still family at the end of the day. Arranging a transfer to the cushiest prison in the state would be difficult, but if his dad's information led to an arrest, it would be worth it.

"Think about it, Tom. Think about it and let me know what you want to do." Sonny flashed a charismatic smile. "I'll see you soon. Or I'll see you in six months. Goodbye, son."

Sonny Elway hung up the phone and motioned to the guard that he was done. Tom watched as his father was led back into the prison, his heartbreaking just a little bit.

Tom went over the meeting in his mind on the Q100 bus. His father's request wasn't entirely unreasonable, Rikers could be a rough place and it was fair that a non-violent prisoner who was in for a long time might not want to spend his golden years there. Carrie's entire family was in law enforcement, she was bound to have some connection, some string the team could pull to arrange a transfer for his father. And after all, Tom wasn't a cruel son, if the remainder of his father's life could be spent around other white-collar fraudsters, wouldn't that be better for him?

Not to mention the fact that Otisville was farther away, and if he couldn't spare a weekend to go all the way to the Catskills, his father couldn't really blame him.

Sonny had likely been holding onto that request for a long time, it wasn't the kind of thing he would spring on Tom on a random day. These visits were for more canteen money, or information about the outside. Sonny had been waiting for the right time to demand a transfer arranged by his prodigal son, and he knew if Tom was investigating Trace Stuart it would be important. Tom's dad clicked when Tom mentioned Matt Penske, if that is what triggered Sonny to pull out his wish list, that must mean Trace's grudge against Cybermart went back to when the hacker was in prison. At this point, Tom couldn't decide if Sonny was holding onto crucial information, or he just sensed that Tom really needed help and he could exploit his son for more than fifty bucks or some cigarettes.

Sonny would either lead them directly to the truth, or down a long path to a dead end and Tom couldn't decide which it would be on his own. Tom decided he would table the thought for tomorrow, Carrie would have a rational opinion. She would know what to do. Carrie always knew what to do. For now, Tom decided he would go home, crack open a beer, and try to forget this whole day.

SEVENTEEN

CARRIE

“That's it?"

"That's what he said."

"And he'll give us what we need?"

"That is what he said."

"Just like that, he moves, and we get Trace?"

"Or so he claims. Remember, he is a liar, so he could just be bullshitting me."

Carrie sat back in her chair. Tom had gone to visit his father on Rikers Island the day before, and they were debriefing surrounded by pieces of their case. Carrie weighed their options.

They could ignore Sonny Elway, there was no reason to entertain his desire to be transferred. Maybe the solution was to detain Trace Stuart and put him through the ringer at the precinct. There was a possibility they wouldn't even need to do that — ADA Winters was working on lifting the gag order on the litigation between Teresa Walden and Cybermart, before the case was sealed. If they could take a look at those court documents, there may be evidence in there tying Trace Stuart to Cybermart, and then they wouldn't need Sonny Elway.

There were only a couple problems. First, Trace Stuart wasn't the kind of guy who would respond well to the hostile environment of an interrogation room, and since their visit, Carrie guessed he was taking extra steps to secure his online innocence. Second, Rachel Winters was getting pummeled by both Cybermart and Teresa Walden's legal teams. Carrie talked to her on the phone the other day, and Winters sounded like she was on the verge of tears. She just didn't have the manpower that those two billion-and-million dollar legal teams had; she didn't have the enthusiastic recent law school grads trying to prove their worth. All she had were a couple of public defenders with some free time to help her out.

If they entertained this idea of moving Sonny Elway to Otisville Penitentiary in exchange for information on Trace Stuart, there was a risk that he would give them bad intel, or nothing at all. If that happened, they'd be exactly where they were right now, and Sonny Elway would be laughing on his way to a plush lifestyle — for an inmate — at Otisville.

"Do you think your dad would risk your relationship like that?" Carrie asked Tom. "He must know that if he gives you nothing and cheats you into getting him transferred you might never speak to him again."

"I don't think he cares. Sonny Elway comes first in his mind. If he really cared about our relationship, I doubt he'd be behind bars right now," Tom answered.

Carrie knew that Tom resented his father, but it was getting to the point, she realized, where it clouded his judgement in places.

"Can we get him to talk before we commit?" Carrie asked.

"I doubt it. He's a smart guy, probably won't talk until we can prove the plans are in place to get him transferred," Tom answered.

Carrie pondered for a little longer. Her father had an old army buddy who now worked at Otisville, he might be able to pull some strings on behalf of Tom's father.

Carrie had reviewed Sonny Elway's file long before she decided to talk to Tom about him. She poured over both his and Trace's file and there was nothing to suggest either was a violent or antagonistic inmate. They weren't planning anything together — based on visitor records Carrie knew Trace and Sonny hadn't had any contact since Trace's release. There was nothing to say that Sonny would cause trouble up at Otisville, if he wanted to be a little more comfortable in his upcoming senior years, why not let him. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small favor in exchange for information that could help the detectives break this case wide open.

"I think we need to do it," Carrie said.

"Why?" Tom asked.

"Trace is still our prime suspect — our only suspect. Based on what we know about him now, even with your deep dive into his online presence, we don't know if he is actually capable of committing these violent crimes. If he is behind this, there must be a reason why he turned to a fatal solution after years of being a peaceful inmate." Carrie allowed her words to sink in while Tom chewed on his bottom lip, trying to churn out an alternative.

"What is the most likely reason Trace Stuart would go from preaching the dangers of surveillance and the widening gap between the rich and the poor to murdering the rich using the Net Guardian system?"

Carrie thought about it for a second. "It's possible that he's murdering rich people with high visibility to show the country the risks of relying on Cybermart's security system. If that was his goal, he has been successful." In the past few weeks, especially since the news that Teresa Walden had been using the Net Guardian system in her home, sales of the Net Guardian had tanked and the company's stock price had taken a hit as well. "Trace Stuart knew that the best place to hit Cybermart was where it hurt the most — their wallet."

"Isn't that enough? Can't we bring him in on that alone? We have his blog posts, his diatribes against the class system in this country. Why can't we just detain him and see what happens?"

"Tom, I don't think the DA would issue a warrant based on just that. We don't have any evidence that Trace Stuart owns a gun. By all accounts, it seems like he's never used a gun in his life, there's no way the DA is going to buy that Trace Stuart is a sniper. I know you don't like your dad —"

"It's not that! It really isn't. I just want to make sure he doesn't take advantage of us — of you, really. If a transfer to Otisville happens, I'm not the one who's going to be pulling those strings, so it's your reputation that is on the line." Tom looked Carrie in the eyes, and she felt herself flush.

"At this point, we don't even know if a transfer is possible. It's a pretty swanky prison, you think the widow who put him in Rikers would get angry if she found out he'd be spending his final days playing bocce ball with celebrities who committed tax fraud?"

Tom laughed at that, which is all Carrie could ask for.

"I'll talk to Carl later today and ask what he thinks. He's probably encountered something like this in his career. I'll talk to my dad, too, see if his buddy can arrange a transfer," Carrie decided, she would move forward with this, the only idea they had right now, and if it didn't work, they could try a new angle.

"If I come up with another option — one that doesn't involve my dad — can we do that instead?" Tom suggested.

"Sure, Tom," Carrie got up and patted him on the shoulder, "good luck with that."

Carrie and Carl met up at Café Milo for their usual coffee and cake date. Carrie was late, again.

Carl was sitting in the window with a cake ready, but no coffee.

"You've been late a lot lately, so I told them to start making it when they saw you sit down," he said, waving at the barista.

"She's cute," Carrie said.

"She is, but I'm not ready to jump back in the dating pool quite yet," Carl said, "Tell me, where are you at with the Net Guardian case? I saw your Chief on tv the other day, does he really believe Cybermart is cooperating?"

Carrie rolled her eyes. "I think he wants to believe it, but he doesn't have to be the one dealing with their legal team day after day. Hey, I wanted to ask you, how do you ask Dad for a favor?" Their father was a former military man turned Long Island police captain.

"What's the favor?"

"The possibility of transferring an inmate from Rikers Island to Otisville?"

Carl laughed at Carrie. "Why? Do you want to be bored to death about Dad's endless stories about his military brother Amory and how they used to get into trouble together overseas? Carrie, you don't have to go to Dad. I've got a buddy who used to be in homicide and transferred over there for an administration job."

"Yikes," Carrie said. "What happened there?"

"He got tired of the dead bodies and traded it in for a boring nine to five job upstate. He claims he's never been happier." Carl shrugged and ate some of his cake. "Is your inmate violent?"

"No, he's a non-violent offender, serving life for fraud."

Carl almost choked on his cake. "That seems extreme, who did he defraud?"

"A billionaire's widow."

"That'll do it. That woman's legal team probably buried your inmate in the six feet under, figuratively if not literally. Why are you wanting to get him transferred? Does he have something to do with the Net Guardian case?"

Carrie bristled at the question. She didn't really want to share Tom's background with anyone, it wasn't her place. She also began second-guessing her decision to consult her brother on this case as often as she had. She hoped he wasn't trying to solve it himself — he had to have his plate full just with what the FBI was giving him now.

"He was Trace Stuart's cellmate for a few years. Figured he'd give us more information on his background and all that."

"I see, a bargaining tool then."

"Yeah, this case does seem to be never ending and barely beginning — I'm starting to worry it will either go on until I die, or it will kill me outright."

Carl laughed. "I'll put my buddy in touch with you. Never know what could happen. You'll likely have to negotiate with the inmate and his lawyer."

"Yeah, I know."

"You really think Trace Stuart is your guy?" Carl asked.

Carrie stared at her brother. She liked being able to talk with Carl this way, casually, without having to worry so much about him anymore. She hoped whatever the FBI was giving him to work on wouldn't cause him to go back into a downward spiral, but so far he seemed to be doing really well. Still, she didn't want him worrying about her case when he had his own stuff to deal with.

"Carl, I don't want you going out of your way to help me solve this. I've got it on my own."

"I know that, but what's the harm in getting help from me? Unless you suddenly think I can't handle it anymore? What? Do you think I'm gonna crumble and start pouring whiskey into these coffees or something?" Carl raised his voice, his expression mutinous. He was drawing the attention of everyone at Café Milo.

"You seem so invested, I just wanted to make sure you weren't overtaxing yourself," she whispered.

"I am invested, Carrie. I'm invested in you and if I can help you solve it, you know I'm not going to shy away from doing that. Besides, I'm not the only one who would like to see Cybermart go down. That company is engorging themselves on profits to the detriment of the entire working class. You think I'm not angry that Net Guardian is supposed to be this wall keeping the wealthy hidden away and protected from the rest of us? As far as I'm concerned, they deserve what's coming to them. They need to be reminded that we all share the world we live in."

"Your right, of course. I just know you're busy and I shouldn't expect you to just drop everything to help me, you know? I think I got a little used to you being home and available all the time." Carrie gave him a smile across her cup of coffee.

"I'm never too busy to help you. You know that." He shook his head and grinned back at her. "And while I love working again, it's not like I've got my own cases to oversee. I'm basically on research. Strictly a desk jockey now."

"I know. So you'll talk to your buddy for me then?"

"Yeah, and I'll have him give you a call."

"Thanks, Carl." Carrie was so glad that Carl had found a way out of the mess that Benny had left him in and had started to get back to his old self. It was good to see.

After their visit, Carrie headed back to the precinct to catch up with Tom. "Hey," she said as she sank down in her chair.

"How's Carl doing?" Tom asked.

"Good. And he's got a friend he's going to talk to about the transfer. Says he'll have him give me a call."

"So you don't have to go through your dad?"

"Exactly."

"Great." Tom looked back at his screen and then said, "You know, I've been looking at an angle that might make some sense of Trace's motive."

"Oh?"

"Well, yeah. I mean the guy was never violent before, right?"

"True. That's one of the things that bugs me about him being our guy."

"I know, but we know he's against Cybermart. So what if his reason is to tank their sales? Wealthy people being killed while under the supposed watch of Cybermart's Net Guardian? It's killing their stocks. People are losing faith in the company."

"Maybe…" Carrie agreed. "We really need to find this guy. I hope Sonny actually has information that can help us and this isn't all for nothing."

"You and me both." Tom nodded.

EIGHTEEN

TOM

Visiting Rikers Island as a cop was much nicer than visiting the prison as a civilian. Visiting as a civilian almost made you feel like you were on your way to be incarcerated, and somehow it was always raining when you got off the Q100 at its last stop. The guards and staff were much nicer to the badge.

None of this eased Tom's anxieties about being there.

Tom had decided to go to this second meeting alone too. Carrie agreed right away — very out of character for her — but she seemed preoccupied with going over the minute details of the two murders. He figured she had some idea that she was trying to figure out and left her to it, thanking her for arranging the details of the potential Otisville transfer. It was easier this way, he told himself, easier not to bring Carrie into Sonny Elway's web of manipulation.

He entered the room, smiling at his father and his father's lawyer. Tom never remembered the lawyer's name. He was once a lanky young man fresh from law school who was used as a punching bag by a team of lawyers hired by the widow Sonny Elway defrauded. The lawyer occasionally checked in on Sonny, making sure he was well-behaved as he served life without parole — a harsh sentence but one that the lawyer had never been able to overturn. Public defenders were overworked, underpaid, and often outnumbered by extensive legal teams.

"Shall we begin?" Sonny Elway asked.

Tom cleared his throat. He felt unprepared, he suddenly wished Carrie had come with him. "Basically, we are prepared to offer the defendant a place at Otisville Penitentiary in upstate New York, in exchange for an interview regarding Trace Stuart," Tom began, hoping the negotiation would go smoothly.

"Is this for real? Is there even a spot in Otisville?" the lawyer asked.

"My partner has spoken with someone in administration at Otisville. They've said they can accommodate Sonny provided he maintains a clean record from now until the transfer and isn't violent while he's up there. One fight, and it's back to the island."

"What's the catch?" the lawyer asked.

"There isn't one. Obviously, we'd need to confirm that the information is good, but that's all."

"So I don't get to move until you've checked that my character analysis of Trace Stuart is

accurate? How long will I have to wait? I don't have too much time left."

"You're 61 Dad, you have plenty of time. What have you invented a heart condition?"

"Maybe I do have a heart condition, how would you know? You only visit once a year — twice if I'm lucky or if you don't check your caller ID before answering a call."

"Well, if you called for any reason other than you need more canteen funds⁠—"

"Pardon me for being in jail."

"You're the one who got yourself there!"

"Gentlemen!" the lawyer interrupted, "Do I need to get a mediator in here?"

Sonny and Tom crossed their arms and sat back in their respective chairs, looking like father and son.

The lawyer looked between the two of them, turning to Sonny. "This is a good deal for you, Sonny. Otisville is a much cushier prison than this place, and until the widow you defrauded passes on, you're unlikely to get the case appealed. Why don't we hear them out, we can determine exactly what they need from you, and then more forward." The lawyer turned back to Tom, "Does that sound reasonable?"

The two men nodded.

The lawyer took out his notes. "Tell me exactly why you want my client to tell you about Trace Stuart, and what kind of information you are looking for?"

"We want to talk to your client because he was Trace Stuart's cellmate for six years. That was the majority of the time Trace Stuart was imprisoned. Considering your client's history of getting people to open up to him, especially when they are in vulnerable emotional states, we thought he might be in the unique position to offer insight into Trace Stuart's state of mind, and how that might have changed while he was a prisoner." Trace caught his father's gaze.

Sonny rolled his eyes at the lawyer — all business and proper now that he was gonna look good.

Tom smirked.

"And what kind of information do you need? He isn't just a character witness, is he?" the lawyer asked.

"No, we also want to know if Trace Stuart showed any violent tendencies while he was away. We know he was put away as a non-violent offender, but we need to know if in the seven years he was in jail that resistance to violence changed."

"Did prison harden him, you mean?" asked Sonny.

"Pretty much, yeah," Tom confirmed.

Sonny nodded slowly. "This negotiation seems too easy for you. What I say can help you break whatever investigation you have going. I want something else."

Tom resisted the urge to explode again, he ought to have known there would be a catch. There was always a catch. This whole plan was horrible to begin with, he should never have let Carrie convince him that his father was the best way to go.

"Perhaps I could have a moment alone with my client to discuss what it is he might wish to have included in this deal?"

Tom nodded and then stepped out of the room, looking into the window. It was hard for him to admit, but part of the reason he hated visiting was that he hated seeing his dad like this — in the orange jumpsuit, usually behind reinforced glass. His dad was smarter than the lawyer, pretty much directing the whole conversation. For a moment, Tom imagined his dad and the lawyer had switched places. Sonny Elway in a suit — one much nicer than the one the lawyer was actually wearing — coaxing his client to take the deal but not settle for being short-changed.

Sonny met Tom's gaze through the glass and smiled, waving him back into the room.

Tom went back in, ready for round two. "Alright, what is it you want added to the deal?" Tom asked, trying to keep his frustration from his voice.

Sonny looked at his lawyer. "I would like to add that I want my son to schedule regular visits to come see me — at Otisville. Then I'll talk," Sonny said, crossing his arms over his chest.

The lawyer, realizing that he was kind of a third wheel in this negotiation, just nodded.

"I can't do that, Dad, you know my schedule is all over the place."

"Well, if you can't find time in your busy schedule to come visit your aging father, then I guess I don't have anything to say to you." Sonny's jaw was rigid.

Tom wasn't going to give in that easily, but he wanted to negotiate. "What kind of schedule are we talking about?" Tom asked.

"I don't know yet, I need some time to decide," Sonny said.

"I can wait." Tom sat back in his chair, mirroring his father.

The lawyer awkwardly stood up and excused himself. Tom and Sonny each waved a hand as he left. The lawyer had to shake his head — it was like seeing into a double mirror.

"What's new, kid?" Sonny asked.

"This isn't going to turn into a family reunion," Tom replied.

"I rarely ever get to see you — you know I'm proud of you, even if you are a cop. I'm sorry to hold you hostage but if I don't, I won't even get a birthday card."

"I don't often get birthday cards from you."

"I used to send them! You're grown now, they only sell kids birthday cards in the canteen."

"Would still be nice."

"I'll keep that in mind for next year — do you prefer cartoon trains or cartoon cars?"

Each man let out a short laugh, before they went back to staring each other down. "Why do you really want the move to Otisville?" Tom asked.

Sonny shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the question. "I'm old."

"You're only sixty-one, Dad."

"Yeah, at Rikers that's old. The kids nowadays, they're way angrier than I was when I first got in here, and more violent. I keep away from them, always have, but it's getting scary. My buddy, another guy who was doing time for fraud, got stabbed a few months ago. He didn't make it. The kid who did it wanted to prove to one of the gangs that he was valuable, and my buddy was an easy target. I don't wanna be the next easy target."

Tom tried not to show the shock that he felt. His father was a non-violent offender, usually surrounded by other non-violent offenders, but that didn't mean prison was a safe and non-violent place. His father's daily worries were different from what Tom imagined, the move to Otisville would help him.

"Twice a year," he said.

"Once a month," countered Sonny.

"I can't promise once a month, I can do once every quarter," Tom said.

"What does that even mean?" Sonny exclaimed. "Once every other month, plus holidays."

"Four times a year, plus holidays, and your birthday," Tom said, extending his hand.

"Deal."

They shook hands.

"So. What can you tell me about Trace Stuart? Start from the beginning." Tom whipped out his notebook, eager to get to the topic at hand.

"He's a good kid, but it looks like our time is up. There's the guard." Sonny looked at the door.

Tom could have picked up the table and thrown it at the wall, if not for the fact that it was bolted to the floor. "Fine. You better be ready to speak next time I come here, Dad, or the deal is off." He stood and walked out the door the guard held open.

Tom passed his father's lawyer in the hallway.

"Did you figure out a schedule?" he asked.

Tom turned to the lawyer, pointed down the hall at his dad and said, "Four times a year, plus holidays, and his birthday — he shook on it. Those visits, plus Otisville. And he had better talk next time or I will walk away from the table." Tom whipped around and stalked down the hall.

As the bus slowly made its way back downtown, Tom calmed down. When he did, he had to admit Sonny Elway was a liar, and a cheat — but he was pretty funny when he wanted to be.

NINETEEN

CARRIE

It was an absolutely insane thought, but Carrie had chased so many dead ends on this case that the craziest thoughts were the only ones that would stick. She might have been spending too much time with Tom, come to think of it.

Carrie sat at her desk, anxiously waiting for Tom to get back from Rikers Island and his visit with his dad. She'd been going over the case, looking at different angles, but she still couldn't figure out what it was that bothered her about it. There was something about the way they were killed that bugged her, but she just couldn't figure it out.

Her phone buzzed in the drawer and thinking it might be Tom, she pulled it out. Instead of Tom, it was a text from Carl.

Hey, was doing some digging on my lunch hour. Thought you might be able to use this. List of people who bought the Net Guardian and have left reviews.

Carrie looked at the names, she saw Teresa Waldon, Gordon Light and a couple of others. That could be really useful, she thought.

Thanks, Carl! she texted back.

Just then Chief Culbertson called out across the detective pool,

"Blake! I need you in my office. Now!" he said, turning back to his office.

From where Carrie sat, she could see there was someone else in there, but she was unsure who it was. Carrie dropped her phone back in a drawer and went over to Culbertson's office.

Sitting in Gary Culbertson's office was Becky Light. Carrie and Tom hadn't heard from Mrs. Light since their last visit, when Carrie almost gave the woman a heart attack by pointing a gun at her in her dead husband's office. She had stopped returning the detectives' calls, and any requests to search her husband's laptop or have their cybercrime department try to break into his Net Guardian account had gone unanswered.

"Mrs. Light, how are you?" Carrie felt incredibly awkward around the women. This whole investigation, Carrie had managed to put her foot in her mouth and make Tom out to be the responsible detective of the two. She was surprised to see Mrs. Light again, especially sitting in Culbertson's office.

"Hello, Detective Blake, I'm well."

"Mrs. Light has brought us something that might interest your investigation," Culbertson said, tapping his fingers on a laptop computer.

"Yes, I've decided, after some deliberation with my lawyers, to pass along my late husband's computer. The one he used primarily for business in his home office," Becky said, staring at the computer. "I wasn't sure if it would be secure, to pass along all of his communications. Frankly, I assumed when I printed out the private conversations that you'd find the maniac who did it and this would all be over. But clearly the situation has escalated, with Teresa Walden's death, and I supposed you need more help than I initially anticipated."

"Oh! Wow!" Carrie was surprised. She assumed Mrs. Light was a closed door and nothing would make her change her mind. True, the detectives hoped they could look at Gordon Light's computer, but his widow always provided an alternative — printing messages or logging into the computer herself with the detectives present. The fact that she was now willing to turn over the machine and allow the NYPD's forensic team to go through it was a huge boost to the investigation. Now, finally, they might actually get somewhere.

"Thank you so much, you have no idea how much this will aid in our investigation," Carrie said.

Mrs. Light smiled a tight, sad smile. "I hope so," she said, standing up and putting on a pair of large black sunglasses. "I trust this will be returned to me once you have what you need. In the condition I dropped it off in."

"Of course," Culbertson said, leading her out of the office, "I'll make sure of it." He turned back to Carrie, motioning toward the laptop.

Carrie grabbed it and made her way to the meeting room she and Tom had taken over as their headquarters. She ran into Tom on the way there.

"Did I just see Culbertson and Becky Light going toward the elevators?" Tom asked.

"Yes, and guess what she left behind?" Carrie said, smiling.

Tom shrugged his shoulders.

Carrie held up the laptop. "Gold. Solid Gold."

"Is that Gordon Light's laptop?" Tom asked.

Carrie nodded, and the duo moved over to the tables they set up as a desk.

It was late. There were styrofoam containers strewn about the room, Tom and Carrie were exhausted. It turned out, Gordon Light sent and received a lot of emails. Aside from the ones related to managing a billion-dollar hedge fund, he also complained about everything to everyone.

"I thought he just complained on social media, like the rest of us, but this guy was truly prolific," Tom said.

"There's another email about the Central Park trees. He hired an arborist to make a bark comparison." Carrie was deep in his emails with the parks' department about the use of American Elms in Central Park. It was fascinating to say the least.

"I think we need to take a break from the screens," Tom said as he got up and stretched, "take a walk. Maybe get a beer."

Carrie tore her eyes away from the laptop. "Yeah, let's go get a beer. In the meantime, I need to show you something."

The pair got their jackets on and started walking out of the building. Carrie ran back to her desk in the detective pool and grabbed her phone out of the drawer.

"I can't believe you do that," Tom said.

"I want to focus while I'm at work. Maybe you ought to try doing the same thing, might help you be more productive." Carrie pulled up the text from her brother, "Take a look at this, what do these names mean to you?"

Tom looked down at her phone as they walked to the elevator, "Where did he get this?" "My brother's got research skills," Carrie shrugged. "I mean he says it's a list of people who bought the Net Guardian. Maybe we can use it?"

Tom stared at the text.

" Do you recognize any of these names?" Carrie said.

"Well, there's Gordon Light and Teresa Walden, obviously we know them. Michael Davis — he's a famous finance guy… it's all people who are famous via social media. Is your brother trying to solve our case for us?" Tom snorted.

"I think so," Carrie said, pocketing her phone.

"Well, he's made some good progress, hopefully it helps us," Tom answered.

"Hopefully." Carrie nodded.

"Let's get a beer, and we'll go back to Gordon Light's emails. Maybe there's a trace of something there." Tom winked at Carrie, who punched him in the arm.

An hour later, the duo was back in the precinct, a little looser thanks to two pints. They had been trading Trace puns the whole time they were at the pub across the street.

"If we trace his location, maybe we can find a motive."

"Careful we don't stew on it for too long, he might leave —"

"Without a trace!" they said in unison, doubling over with laughter.

It was late, and a couple of the night shift detectives looked up from their desks. Carrie and Tom stifled their laughter and went back to the meeting room. Once there, Carrie went back to email duties while Tom investigated Trace Stuart's online activity, to generate a list for Carrie to cross-reference with the list her brother gave her.

The next email thread Carrie clicked was dated just a few days before Gordon Light's murder, and it was between him and a customer support email for Cybermart. Carrie sobered up really quickly when she saw the subject line for the original email.

"Maybe Trace Stuart has been right all along," she muttered.

The email thread was lengthy, over the course of a few hours, and it was a series of detailed complaints — some with photos — that the Cybermart system had been spying on Gordon Light and his wife.

"Tom, you have to come look at this," she said, beckoning Tom to read over her shoulder. "'The drone is the biggest culprit of them all'," she read, "not only is it unable to notice when it

is flying into a Ming Dynasty vase, purchased at auction for more than you'll make in your entire life⁠—"

"Weird flex, but okay," Tom said.

"—but it will also fly into my private office when I am working on a sensitive matter and has more than once followed my wife into the bedroom. For some reason, when this happens, the live feed does not show the correct stream, instead indicating that the drone is docked when it is clearly hovering over my shoulder. Photographs attached.'" Carrie sat back, and Tom continued to scroll through the emails.

"He doesn't get much of a response from the customer support team," Tom said.

"Are you surprised? Remember how many hours I spent on hold with them?" Carrie responded.

"Well, we know one thing is for sure — Trace Stuart's rants were kind of right. No matter how secure Net Guardian claims to be, there are still glaring privacy issues that the company would prefer to ignore," Tom said.

Suddenly, Carrie remembered that Teresa Walden was in litigation with Cybermart and Net Guardian — and she also had one of those drone units. Carrie had seen where the docking station was installed, the remnants of the station were still there after Teresa had it removed just before she was killed.

"Did the DA ever answer us on opening up those court documents for Teresa Walden?" she asked Tom, who shrugged. "Tom, you need to keep a file system."

"Sure, Carrie, I'll go out and buy an accordion folder and label it: 'Things the DA Hasn't Been Able to Give Us." He rolled his eyes and continued reading the email chain between Gordon Light and Cybermart.

It was too late now, but tomorrow she'd call the DA's office and see what they could do on speeding up the request to open those court documents.

For now, they could at least confirm one thing — Trace Stuart's bleak image of a surveilled future was already coming true.

TWENTY

MICHAEL DAVIS

Michael Davis' blood was boiling.

He had spent most of his day relaxed, watching the financial markets and sending emails to his financial advisor about where he wanted to invest. He made himself a beautiful meal from a cookbook he had been sent by a publishing house; watched the financial news in the evening; and wound down with a long steam in his personal steam room. Michael Davis never had to work a day in his life, his father had founded a company that manufactured silica used in the tech industry. He was the heir to his father's company — which basically meant he was present at ribbon cutting ceremonies and made sure the board didn't go off the rails or decimate itself by infighting — and had grown the few million his father left him into a billion-dollar fortune using what he learned while getting his Master's in finance at the London School of Economics.

Since Gordon Light had died the title of 'America's Next Rockefeller' had fallen to him, and perhaps Michael Davis let it go to his head.

He had absolutely no desire to end his day in a heated argument with someone in the comments section of his finance blog. Michael's blog — Money with Mike — had reached its twenty year anniversary. Michael had studied finance and fallen in love with economics with the enthusiasm that only the wealthy heir to a million dollar company could muster. He was enamored with the fluctuations of the financial market, how a decision by a small government on one side of the world could cause a multi-millionaire halfway across the world to sink or swim. It helped that Michael always stood to get richer, no matter how volatile the market was.

The blog had humble enough beginnings; he'd started it when a girlfriend of his complained that finance was impossible to understand. So in addition to growing his inheritance and running his father's silica manufacturing company, Michael had also built a small empire for himself with a blog that had won many prestigious awards since its inception. It was a true passion project and had introduced Michael to a whole other part of the world — the world where publishing companies clamored for his next book, trendy companies sent him new products to test and advertise to his followers, and podcasts and finance shows were constantly requesting him to come on their shows as a guest. Michael conquered the world of finance and was starting to conquer the world of celebrity; he didn't like to meddle in places that would only bring him down.

That's why he never read the comments section of his blog.

He hired someone to moderate it because, as with all corners of the internet, there was always some crazed guy in his mom's basement yelling at him from the comments section. They were always angry about Michael being too rich, suspiciously smart, or secretly a lizard in a human suit. Early on, he decided he could hire someone to manage the vitriol of the comments section, so he usually didn't look at it. Tonight was different.

Michael just published his post about Net Guardian's recent publicity woes, as well as his own experience with the security system. In Michael's view, the article was mostly fact. Gordon Light and Teresa Walden each had the Platinum package from Net Guardian — a complete set up with the tightest security available — and they had both been killed with seemingly no trace of a killer. Michael was following the investigation as best as he could and it seemed the detectives were in over their heads because of Net Guardian's unwillingness to cooperate the way they expected.

All this contributed to the worst few months in Net Guardian's history. Sales had tanked due to the murders and increasing mistrust in the company. Based on all that, Cybermart's stocks had been going through a steep sell through period that was unprecedented for the company. This was undisputed fact, it was all over the internet and the news, so any comments calling his reporting fake were just plain wrong.

Michael could speak to the Net Guardian Platinum package because he had the same set up of the Net Guardian in his own home. Michael noticed the drone unit would sometimes hover over his shoulder while he was working on personal financial documents or doing research for his blog. It usually took place on banking and stock trading sites that had Michael's personal information all over the page, as well as some industry publications that had information that was not for public eyes. And maybe a little insider trading here and there, but not any more than other billionaires out there.

When it happened, Michael reached out to the Net Guardian team — to what was supposed to be his private security liaison with the company — but he didn't receive any kind of response. Michael did what he always did in that situation, he went over everyone's head and reached out to Matt Penske directly about the issue. He sent an email, as Penske never seemed to answer his phone, and also asked for a comment about the recent volatility in the markets surrounding Cybermart and Net Guardian. Michael was very rudely rebuffed by Penke's team, and he said so in the blog post. At the end of the day, none of it was confidential information, from Cybermart's sell-off to the information Michael decided to disclose about his experience with Penske and Net Guardian.

That's why, when Michael glanced at the comments section and saw the top comment was saying he was a conspiracy theorist, a quack, a balding has-been who was trying to bring Cybermart down because he was jealous of the company, he responded. He didn't know what about that particular comment got to him, maybe that it implied he was somehow jealous of Cybermart which was plainly untrue. Yes he had been critical of Penske in the past — Penske had touted himself as a self-made billionaire and Michael pointed out that Penske had also inherited Cybermart from his father, and the company had innovated but was not inventing new products. Overall, Michael Davis couldn't care less about the company and was genuinely enthusiastic about the potential for innovation that Net Guardian promised — he just wanted the damn thing to work properly.

Against his better judgement, Michael Davis responded.

@anonymous not jealous of Cybermart, very different company to my father's — glad to see a fellow inheritor do something big. I also use Net Guardian, but the company ignored my issues and has not provided a fix. That is a big no-no from me.

@MoneyMike u r clearly jealous. Cybermart makes more money than u ever will. i will boycott u, ur website sux. used to think it gave good advice now i see it is all trash — u should watch out.

@anonymous Not trash — recycling! While we're at it, I'd like to remind you that Cybermart's innovations are only so good as the people they hire, once those people leave they take their entrepreneurial spirit with them. Matt Penske knows nothing about his own product, that's why the company is panicking in the face of the recent market sell off. Pardon my bluntness.

@MoneyMike L0$ER, jealous. Matt Penske is wayyyyyyyyyyy smarter than u could ever be. good luck posting on ur blog when ur POOR.

It went downhill from there. Michael managed to get dragged down into the gutter by this commenter — there were people posting replies telling him to ignore the troll but he just couldn't.

@MoneyMike hey BALDO, go back to selling hair plugs on social media and leave the big industry to the big boyz. Just retire already you washed up l0serrrr

It was the bald thing. Michael hated it when people mentioned that he was going bald. For a moment he was trying to own it, and yes he had accepted a sponsorship for a hair plugs company, but after he had been rejected by a famous actress who made jokes about how much scalp she could see, he got insecure about it all over again. Whoever this was knew it would push his buttons, and after that the comment thread descended into name-calling. Other trolls joined in, the usual anarchist gang calling for Michael to be guillotined for hoarding his wealth. He wasn't hoarding anything, he worked hard to build his father's company and his own fortune, those punk trolls were just jealous.

The commenters sounded childish, like a bully on a school playground, but also high and mighty and pretentious. All the trolls were the same, wrapped up in ideologies only they understood. He forced himself away from the computer and decided he would make himself a drink. His phone was buzzing from all the notifications, so he turned it off and left it in his office for the night. Whatever it was could wait until he spoke to his blog's moderator and publicist in the morning. He should really tighten the security on his blog.

Michael strolled to his lounge and made himself a drink.

"Music — classical!" he called out to his automated surround-sound system.

Tchaikovsky blared through the speakers and Michael smiled, taking a deep breath and a long whiff of his one-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of prime Japanese whiskey. Just then, Michael heard an odd thump coming from the hallway door of the lounge. It could have been the wind causing branches to hit the window in the hall. Since moving out to his new home in the Hamptons, he'd had to get used to the strange sounds of nature surrounding him. But this was an especially loud thump, and it was surprising to hear it through the heavy oak door of his lounge. For good measure, he checked the Net Guardian live feed. As he suspected, there was nothing on the camera. He double checked his drone, but it was offline.

"Finally," he muttered to himself, assuming the company had finally listened to his complaints, and taken the thing offline.

Michael decided to take his drink outside and get some fresh air. He opened the heavy door to the hallway and froze. His crystal highball fell to the ground and shattered at his feet.

Down the hall a small military drone with a built-in rifle had just turned on a dime and was now coming directly toward Michael. When the drone started to move, Michael jumped back, slamming the heavy door, just barely missing the drone's first shot. He ran out the other door of the lounge toward his den and through the maid's kitchen on the other side, aiming to get to the terrace in the backyard. The drone seemed to know his own home better than he did, it took the long way around back through the main hallway, catching up to Michael in the maid's kitchen.

Michael grabbed the first thing he saw, a large sheet pan, and dove through the door into the main kitchen area. Michael had installed an industrial-sized kitchen, figuring it would encourage him to finally learn how to cook. He mostly used the microwave in the small maid's kitchen off the den, the one that was meant for snacks. Sadly, this meant that Michael didn't know where anything was in the professionally designed kitchen. He clutched the sheet pan, ducking behind the kitchen island. The military drone was flying erratically, as if it were drunk. It was bumping into his walls and scratching the immaculate wallpaper as it stalked Michael through the first floor.

He managed to take advantage of a moment when the drone accidentally flew itself into a corner to escape the kitchen into the main hallway, running to the foyer, but Michael wasn't fast enough and soon the drone flew over his head, slamming into the front door. Michael needed to stop for a breath, but he needed to take every chance he got to gain on the drone. He had to get up to his bedroom and into the panic room where he could phone the police.

He ran in a zigzag pattern up the stairs, hoping to confuse the drone which had started shooting at him, just barely missing every time. Michael was running out of breath; the house was enormous and because he had just moved in he kept forgetting where he was going in there. Michael was feeling disoriented, like the floor was rising up around him. It reminded him of his younger days when he lived in Hong Kong, partying so much that he'd get the spins — except this time Michael was running for his life.

He may have felt drunk, but he was sure whomever was controlling the drone was drunker because they couldn't fly in a straight line even when Michael wasn't trying to deceive it. Michael was slowing down; his chest was getting tight and he had a shooting pain up his arm. It felt like a boa constrictor was tightening itself around him.

"Just a little further, Mikey, come on!" he said, encouraging himself.

He managed to make it to the bedroom and as he was struggling to open the door, the drone landed a shot in his shoulder. When he fell into the room, his legs gave out and he felt his chest tighten. Michael grabbed his heart and collapsed, he heard the drone whiz into the room, slamming into the opposite wall just before Michael blacked out.

The drone paused for a moment, surveying the battered body. It turned and clumsily flew out the open window of the second floor bedroom. The drone struggled with the extra-strong bug screen Michael Davis had installed to keep the nature of the Hamptons out of his bedroom. Just outside the window the drone seemed to have a second thought about Michael Davis. It slowly turned around and fired one last bullet into Michael Davis' head, before flying out into the evening air.

TWENTY-ONE

CARRIE

Chief Gary Culbertson poked his head into Carrie and Tom's Flying Killer meeting room. The duo were sat next to each other, their heads buried in Gordon Light's laptop, laughing at something involving trees and surveillance footage. Culbertson cleared his throat and the pair stood up and split apart — a little too quickly, because Carrie thought it made them look guilty.

"While you two are giggling at Light's computer, there was another murder," he said.

That got the duo's attention.

"I got a call from the Hampton's police department. They saw you two are investigating the Net Guardian case on the news, and he's claiming this one fits your profile. Older, famous, rich guy was shot through a window on the second floor. Also, he was the owner of a state-of-the-art Net Guardian system."

"What's his name?" Carrie asked him.

Culbertson looked down at his note. "Michael Davis — I know that name. Finance guy, he's funny. I see him on CNN."

Carrie felt like she had been struck by lightning, reliving a nightmare where she couldn't move her body. She felt Tom reach out and touch her shoulder but it felt far away.

"You okay, Blake?" Culbertson asked.

Carrie cleared her throat. "Yes, sir. We're on it." She picked up her jacket off a chair and moved to the door. "Elway, I'll do the driving." Carrie moved swiftly out of the station, hoping she could at least make it to the elevator before she exploded with rage, disappointment, and fear.

Tom grabbed his jacket and jogged after her, saluting Culbertson on his way out.

Once again Carrie and Tom were in a car driving out of the city into the lap of luxury. She focused on the road as they drove through tree lined avenues dotted with mega-mansions and enormous empty summer homes. They were escorted through the gates of a private community by local police who had been advised that they'd be coming to investigate Michael Davis' murder in connection with the series of Net Guardian murders.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again, Trace Stuart has a point about the increasing gap between the rich and the poor, and hoarding wealth can be seen as immoral in the age of social responsibility," Tom chirped as he stared out the window.

"Shut up, Tom," Carrie deadpanned.

The drive was silent after that.

Carrie silently wished Trace Stuart was more obvious about his Robin Hood motives and would actively steal and redistribute that wealth rather than murder for revenge or petty ideals. She felt for the families of these people who suddenly didn't know if they would be the next ones to be picked off, all because of the insane amount of money they spent to be privately surveilled.

"I wonder how they'll spin this latest murder," she offered to Tom, who was ready to bat back with a mock report from Cybermart. By the time they were winding up the drive of Michael Davis' Hamptons home, Carrie was sniping back at Tom's sarcastic comments and laughing about the petty grievances of the bourgeoisie. They admired the house with sarcastic oohs and ahhs, which were very quickly silenced by what they found.

"The body's upstairs in the bedroom," said their favorite forensic specialist, Ned Bryant, "from what I can see he was shot in the head and the shoulder, but the shots came from different angles."

"Two shooters?" Carrie asked.

"Maybe, but I have another theory. Follow me." Ned Bryant motioned for them to come up the stairs with him.

Carrie secretly wished she was here on a different occasion, the staircase looked like something out of a princess movie, and she wanted to gracefully descend the grand staircase or something. She shook the thought out of her head, to get back down to business. Her job was to put her personal feelings aside, not mock the victim for the circumstances of their death. The detectives went into the bedroom and found the body of a large man, face down, with sparse spiky blonde hair.

"Michael Davis. Sixty-three years old, shot twice, but died clutching his chest, so I'm guessing he may have had a heart attack," Ned Bryant said.

"Any idea which killed him first?" Tom asked

"Based on how he fell, with his arm across his chest, I'm guessing the heart attack was first. He probably clutched his chest and fell to the floor, and the gunshots made sure he wasn't going to get back up again." Ned often reveled in the gory details, but this time he seemed angry. "Seems pathetic to shoot someone when they're down. Based on the angle of the gunshot wound, he was definitely shot through that window over there," Ned said pointing to the window opposite the team, "Looks like it's another one of your flying snipers."

"The window frame looks damaged," Carrie said.

"It is! I think the killer was inside with the victim, and then pushed through the screen to escape. If you take a look out the window, you'll see the screen was caught in a tree branch just below us. The force was powerful enough to rip the screen out of the window frame."

"But there aren't any footprints leading to or from the window area," Tom pointed out.

"That's the confusing part. I'm going to have my team examine the floor, see if maybe the killer cleaned up after themselves. I'm a little busy in here, but if you take a look through the rest of the house you'll see, the victim was chased from the lounge downstairs, through the small maid's kitchen by the den, into the industrial kitchen, and then up the staircase to the bedroom. We think he was trying to make it to the panic room in the walk-in closet." At that, one of Ned's assistants called him away, and he left the detectives to their examination of the scene.

"He has two kitchens?" Tom asked no one in particular.

"Well," Carrie responded, "where do we begin?"

"We could work our way down through all the kitchens?" Tom suggested.

Carrie nodded and led them out of the room. They walked slowly down the hallway of the second floor, tracing the path forensics had marked. It wasn't hard to find, every couple of feet was a yellow evidence marker next to a place where the wallpaper was nicked, recreating the terrifying ordeal.

"No wonder he had a heart attack. A guy that age being chased through his house like a blonde sorority girl in a horror movie?" She ran her hand over the wallpaper, "I wonder what made these marks?"

"Could be marks from a gun? If a guy is running with a rifle or something, and he's been hurt —" Tom said.

"— or he's drunk. The marks have a kind of winding way about them, like someone was knocking into the walls as they walked because they were off-balance," Carrie said.

The duo descended the grand staircase, their eyes on the wall looking for more marks. Tom nudged Carrie and she looked up at the door, where a deep gauge had been taken out of the wood frame.

"That can't have been a person," Carrie said.

"Not unless it was a giant," Tom agreed. They kept walking, hoping to find more answers but all they found were more and more questions. As they reached the large industrial kitchen, they saw cabinets opened and drawers opened up, and behind the island was a discarded sheet pan.

"He must have been using it as a shield or something," Tom muttered.

Carrie pointed to a yellow evidence marker illuminating a bullet in the wall behind the kitchen island. They continued into the maid's kitchen — which, Carrie noticed, was bigger than her only kitchen at home.

"I'm going to check out the hallway, I'll meet you back in the front room?" Tom said.

Carrie nodded, continuing into the den. A side table had been turned over, spilling a vase of flowers onto the floor. If Michael Davis was being chased through here, he must have been terrified, which explained the path of destruction in the name of getting to his panic room. She crossed into the lounge and saw Tom examining a bullet hole in the heavy mahogany door.

"Someone had quite a shock," he said, pointing down to the wood floor at a shattered crystal glass.

"Where it all began, I guess," Carrie said, facing Tom.

Behind him, Carrie noticed something hovering in the air.

"Tom, what is that?" she said, pointing behind him.

"That's a Net Guardian drone. Becky Light has one, it almost chased me into the bathroom when I was at her penthouse once."

"Where does it… sleep?" Carrie asked.

"It comes with a charging dock, kind of like one of those robot vacuums," Tom answered.

"I think Teresa Walden had that set up too. It wasn't in use, but I remember someone mentioned she had recently ripped it out of the wall."

The detectives watched as the drone slowly moved into the hallway, and then they carefully followed its path. This drone was much less aggressive than the one in Becky Light's apartment. It seemed to be on a pre-programmed path throughout the house, monitoring what was going on. Carrie noticed it was flying at the same height as some of the nicks in the wallpaper left from Michael Davis' attacker. She got closer to it and saw it wasn't like those camera drones her nephews were obsessed with. This drone looked like something the military would use — it could turn on a dime, hover in place, move in any direction, and change how high it was flying.

"Tom, do you think you could mount a rifle on that thing?" she asked.

Tom looked at the drone and nodded. "I mean maybe not that exact drone, but something like it, with the right modifications. I don't see why not," he answered.

Carrie stopped him from getting closer, grabbing his hand before he could touch the drone. The drone spun around scanning the detectives. They froze, unsure of what to do exactly.

Tom cleared his throat and turned to Carrie. "Have you seen my gun? I think I left my gun in the car," he said, pointedly.

Carrie picked up his thread, trying not to glance at the drone, which was still hovering watching the pair. "Let's go check the car, you know you're supposed to have your gun on you, Tom."

The duo did their best to walk down the hallway as normally as possible, not running as was their instinct. It was amazing how hard it was to walk normally when you were trying so hard to be normal. As soon as they were out of sight of the drone, they sped out the door, not stopping until they were in the car.

"Wait, why did we run all the way here?" Tom asked Carrie who had been leading the two out of the house.

"Just in case, I don't want us to be overheard by anyone." Carrie lowered her voice and Tom looked like he was about to start laughing. "Hear me out — what if the Net Guardian drone is the shooter? It hovers and flies, meaning it can shoot at the impossible angles we've seen as well as take precise aim at its target; it's small enough to go through tiny windows and shoot the smaller bullets used on Gordon Light and Teresa Walden, and it was already available to the victims. They all had Net Guardian systems, and they all opted for the most exclusive package, which includes a mobile drone."

Tom sat silently, and Carrie knew he was thinking about what she was describing, and the behavior he had seen from Becky Light's drone.

"It's possible, if Trace Stuart hacked into the account, he would be able to take over the drone and control it manually. Doesn't explain how he would attach a gun; you would still need someone to modify the drone."

"True, unless they didn't use the victims' drones. Maybe they used a copycat, something that was similar enough that the victims wouldn't notice it was different, and the drone could sneak up on them and attack without suspicion from the victims." The wheels were starting to turn in Carrie's head. If the motive of the murders was to expose the dangers of the Net Guardian system and make the ultra-rich feel unsafe, why not use the security system against its owners. In one move, Trace would be exposing the cracks in the Net Guardian software and also how the cameras and drones could be modified and end up deadly. He would also put a little fear into the one-percent, proving that the exclusive world they had built up around them wasn't as impenetrable as they believed.

"A drone flying long distances would still raise some eyebrows. The murderer would have to be out here to launch and collect the drones or find some way to break in and replace the original Net Guardian drone with a copycat," Tom said.

With this theory, they were closer to having enough to bring Trace Stuart in for questioning.

"That's true, a drone flying from Brooklyn out to Long Island would definitely have been reported to police more than a couple of times as it flew. With all our locations, it would have been easy for the killer to control the drone from a nearby, hidden location. The first victim was in the middle of the city, the second lived in a gated community but on a secluded estate, and now — we're surrounded by trees, and it's so dark at night out here, I doubt he would have a hard time hiding in plain sight."

"We should get Ned's team to comb the woods surrounding the house, look for footprints, empty beer cans, cigarettes, anything that might suggest someone was nearby last night." Carrie was forming a plan.

She wasn't entirely sure where it would lead, but she did know that the first thing they had to do was to get Trace Stuart to confess. His ideas were righteous, but it was starting to sound like they had turned dangerous as well, and Carrie wanted to make sure Trace wasn't going to bring anyone down with him.

"Tom, we need to see your dad again. It's important now, we are running out of time," she said,

"I'll make arrangements to go⁠—"

"No. This time, I'm coming with you, and we're going to get Sonny Elway to tell us everything he knows about Trace Stuart, and we are not going to leave Rikers Island until he does."

TWENTY-TWO

TOM

Tom felt like a kid being driven to a dentist appointment. No matter how much he protested, Carrie insisted on coming with him to visit his dad at Rikers. He even tried confusing Carrie by telling her the wrong appointment time, but she just called the jail to confirm she had it right.

"I'm fine, Carrie, I don't need you to come and babysit me."

"I'm not babysitting you, if this prisoner was any other informant, I would be coming with you anyway."

"Not if it was a C.I."

"He can't be your confidential informant if I'm the one who told you about him."

Tom shrunk down in his seat. He tried playing the 'he's my dad' card, but Carrie did nothing but roll her eyes.

"What are you so afraid of anyway? What, you think your dad will charm me, and I'll drop everything to start mailing him love letters?" Carrie snorted.

Tom shifted in his seat and stared out the window. The thought of Carrie falling for his dad was uncomfortable, it made Tom feel jealous. He was just as charming as Sonny but didn't use his powers for evil. If Carrie was going to fall for an Elway⁠—

Tom stopped himself. What was he even thinking, and why was he comparing himself to his dad as romantic competition? Carrie was still chuckling at her dumb joke, which made Tom smile. Carrie had a pretty smile; it was nice to see it.

They turned into the jail complex, flashing their badges to the security guard at the gate. Today was just an official interview with the two detectives—Carrie had arranged for Sonny's lawyer to meet with the DA to continue negotiations and hammer out details of Sonny's transfer in exchange for his information on Trace Stuart.

"That's it? A negotiation with a public defender to transfer a prisoner to a prison that has room for him?" Rachel Winters had asked over the phone.

"Yes, we just need to make sure his information is good," Carrie said, with Tom's approval.

"What's the catch?" Winters expected the worst from the two, since for the past few months she had spent all her spare time fighting with Cybermart and Teresa Walden's lawyers on behalf of Tom and Carrie.

"There is none. Figured we'd give you a break for once," Carrie joked.

"That's great, I'm happy to do it, and I'm going to say yes and hang up now before you start adding favors on to this one," she said, and immediately hung up.

The detectives sat waiting for Sonny, who was taking longer than usual. They asked the guard outside why but he just shrugged.

"He's doing it on purpose, to make us nervous," Tom said, pacing the interview room.

"I don't think he has quite as much control over his time as you seem to think," Carrie said while looking down at her notes.

Tom guffawed, "Seven minutes! He's kept us waiting seven minutes, you really don't think this is a tactic to drive us crazy and just give into some other insane demand of his because he knows we are pressured for time?"

Carrie slowly raised her head. "Tom, do you need a time-out?"

Just then, the door to the interview room buzzed, and Sonny Elway was led into the room. "Sorry I'm late kids," he said, smiling, "they tried to pick me up in the BMW when I specifically requested the Rolls for this trip."

The guard shoved him into his seat, and Sonny fell in o it with a wince. Without another word, the guard left them alone.

"Nice to finally meet you," Carrie said, extending her hand.

"Very nice to meet you, young lady," he turned to Tom, "who is this and where have you been hiding her?" Sonny turned Carrie's hand around. "No ring? Is he stalling?" Sonny winked at Carrie.

Carrie cleared her throat and pulled her hand away, flashing her badge as she did.

"Oh, my apologies — you're the business, he's the clown," Sonny concluded.

"Very astute, you really are as good a judge of character as Tom says you are," Carrie said.

"And you are just as charming as he has never said you are. Carrie, is it?"

"Blake. Carrie Blake, I'm Tom's partner. I'm here because I've heard you can give us a clarifying perspective on your former cellmate, Trace Stuart."

"So I've heard. I hear you need some help pinning down Trace Stuart's bizarre personality and motivations," he said, leaning back, "and I want to help, I just want to make sure I'm getting a fair shake."

"You see?" Tom exclaimed, "he's just been waiting to pile on the requests and make this harder for us, until we're so desperate that we hand him his own personal prison somewhere upstate!"

Carrie ignored Tom and kept her focus on Sonny, matching his stance. "I think a transfer to the cushiest white-collar prison in the state is pretty fair. Not to mention, you'll finally have your son on a schedule, despite the fact that he has to travel even farther. I think that's even more than a fair shake, all things considered."

"Sure, but I mean⁠—"

"—and," Carrie continued, not letting Sonny get a word in, " we have given you more than a few weeks to think about it. I know you have Tom's number on speed dial to leave many voicemails detailing your requests. You've done it before, so anything else you need must not be so urgent that you would obstruct our investigation further."

Tom stared at Carrie, it was like watching an elephant fly, she knew how to keep Sonny in check, anticipating his next move and cutting him off just when he would unleash his silver tongue once again. It was amazing.

"I would never obstruct an investigation, from my understanding all you need is someone to confirm that the Trace Stuart you're investigating is the same tall, lanky, pale nerd who was also at Rikers for seven years. Once you have that information, you can walk away and all my dreams of retiring to Otisville will be dashed."

"You know we've already confirmed the transfer with your lawyer. The sooner you talk to us, the sooner it'll happen. So, spill. I'm here on business not pleasure, and I'm not getting paid overtime to listen to your whining. We both know we're talking about the same Trace Stuart, we both know you'll just keep coming up with new requests if we don't cut you off. So, your days of getting Tom so annoyed that he gives in and give you more time are over as far as this case goes. I'm here this once, and I'm not leaving until you tell me what I need to know about Trace."

Sonny and Tom Elway were stunned into silence. Sonny was still smiling, Tom had to pick his jaw up off the floor. He really was stalling, allowing his feelings about his father to cloud his vision as a cop, and his dad knew it and used it against him! In his stubborn desire to not fall into Sonny Elway's trap, he'd backed into a different one. Maybe it wasn't even a trap, maybe he was just so focused on Sonny that he lost sight of why he needed to be interviewed in the first place. How many other detectives would bend over backward for an inmate's request the way Tom had?

"I like your style," Sonny said, breaking the silence. "I like that you're direct. No bullshit, just looking for information and drawing a line when you're done. Tom, you could learn a thing or two from your partner here."

Tom nodded. Now he really felt like a little kid at the dentist, being scolded for not flossing his teeth properly or something.

Carrie whipped out her notebook and pen and started on her list of questions.

"In your time together as cellmates at Rikers, how much talking did you do with Trace?"

"A lot, he's quite a character. Very idealistic, which is rare for an inmate."

"Did he ever express a desire to be violent?"

"Violent? No way, Trace wouldn't — couldn't — hurt a fly. I still don't think he knows how to throw a punch. He survived in here by keeping his head down and avoiding trouble, not causing it."

"Do you think that could have changed?"

Sonny looked between the two detectives. "What is he under investigation for?"

"We think he is behind the Net Guardian murders," Tom said, "our suspicion is that he used his skills as a hacker to get into the victims' Cybermart account and take over their security cameras, creating a plan of their homes. Then he would take over the drone unit and murdered the victim, knowing that the footage was heavily encrypted and no one would have access to it. We can't be sure, but we suspect the footage of the actual murder has been deleted."

Sonny stared at Tom like he was speaking gibberish. "You think he hacked into what and did what?"

"Net Guardian is an extremely expensive security system and has given Cybermart an enormous profit boost. Trace has written rants and warnings on his blog about the dangers of giving Cybermart that kind of access, so we think he's been killing users of the most elite tier of the system as some kind of message," Tom explained.

Sonny looked back to Carrie. "Is he right, or is this some kind of joke?"

Carrie shook her head, and Sonny started to laugh. The partners looked at each other, unsure what set Sonny off. Sonny wiped his eyes and beckoned Tom to sit down.

"Let me tell you kids something and listen closely — Trace Stuart is not your man. Whatever path you're on is leading you on a wild goose chase," he said.

"What makes you say that?" asked Carrie.

"First of all, Trace is a good kid, and wouldn't even know how to hurt a fly. If he did murder these rich billionaires, he'd be the first person to tell you, not out of pride but out of complete anguish. His ideas about the rich are pretty angry — but he's just saying what everyone else is thinking. If he cared, Trace Stuart would be a professor at a college teaching other pale kids anarchist philosophies, but he'd still be donating half his salary to charities that fund computer programs or something. He thinks the internet is this magical wonderland that will 'equalize all class systems'," explained Sonny.

"That doesn't mean he couldn't convince someone to do his dirty work for him, manipulate their own feelings of resentment into committing violence in the name of his philosophies," Carrie said.

Sonny looked at her straight in the eyes and leaned in. "Have you ever spoken to Trace Stuart?" he asked.

"Yes," Carrie responded.

"Were you able to get a word in?"

"Well, no, not exactly."

"And were you convinced by his ideas, or did you just think he was a quack who maybe needed to spend more time at a park or something?" Sonny was looking directly into Carrie's eyes.

Even Tom could feel the weight of Sonny's gaze. He thought back to their meeting with Trace, the hours they spent completely confused by the terminology and looping philosophy. Sonny was right, Trace couldn't convince a bird to start flying.

"That's a good point," Carrie said, unwilling to betray any other thoughts on the matter.

"Who did you say was killed?" Sonny asked, relaxing a little in his seat.

Tom listed off the victims. "Gordon Light, the billionaire manager of a hedge fund; Teresa Walden, a retired actress; and Michael Davis, an heir to a silica company turned financial guru."

"So, just a bunch of rich people who had too much money and too little sense?" Sonny asked.

The detectives nodded. "That's not who Trace is interested in. He thinks having that much money is morally reprehensible, but he's not gonna touch someone if their crime is being a rich bastard — unless they're a rich bastard who is harming innocent people around them. Think about it — he exposed the names of donors to that corrupt, racist, asshole of a senator not so they could be embarrassed or hurt, just so the public would know why this senator who seemed so unpopular had enough money to blow his campaign rivals out of the running."

"He just hates government?" Tom asked, not really following.

"He's an anarchist, Tom. What did you expect? With Trace Stuart, nothing is personal, it's all political."

"But he's written long rants about how the Net Guardian system is a danger to society — these high-profile murders have finally got the public to pay attention, to see that it can't keep you as safe as you think."

"In any of these murders, was the hacking made public? Did the footage of the drone under someone else's control go public?"

Tom thought about it and — no. Until Michael Davis' murder even the detectives weren't sure that it was a drone attacking the victims, and the only footage they had of the drones acting aggressively came from Gordon Light, and they had only been able to see that footage after a long battle with Cybermart.

"You're saying that Trace would have made the footage public?" Tom asked his dad.

"Definitely. If he wanted to show how dangerous it was to have CCTV in your own home, he would be hacking these things left, right, and center, and you'd be able to watch the footage on a constant livestream thanks to that little punk."

"Maybe that's true," Carrie interrupted, "but it still doesn't explain the Robin Hood theory."

"What's the Robin Hood theory?" Sonny asked.

"That Trace was making the floor plans of these homes public on private hacker forums to encourage other anarchist hackers to steal priceless artworks and the like and sell them," she explained.

"Has that happened yet?"

Carrie looked down at her notebook. "Not exactly, but it could. We have no way of monitoring these hacker forums."

"Detective Blake, trust me, these hacker kids are talking about other computer mumbo jumbo and making me-mes about them. They wouldn't know a Picasso from a stick figure drawn by Tom."

"Me-mes?" Tom held in a laugh.

"Yeah, me-mes. Trace showed me some in the computer lab once. It's a joke on the internet that you copy the picture but change the words and stuff. A me-me." Sonny rolled his eyes at Tom.

Tom's laughter exploded. "It's called a meme, Dad," he said, still laughing. Tom appreciated the moment for what it was — his dad acting like any other parent of the boomer generation, completely missing the mark on a piece of internet culture.

Carrie pressed her lips together. "He's right Sonny, it's pronounced as one word — 'meem', not the word 'me' twice."

Sonny laughed. "Well, excuse me for a life behind bars. You know Trace Stuart told me he'd hack the lady who put me here? Said he could make her email get flooded with ads for penis enlargers or something. That's the kind of shit he pulled on private citizens — pranks that were ultimately harmless. Honestly, you're better off getting his help to find your killer. If you really think the killer hacked these drone things, Trace might know who it was or how they did it."

Carrie and Tom looked at each other, the meeting wasn't progressing the way they expected, but Sonny was being more forthcoming than they thought he would be.

"Who do you think did it?" Tom surprised Sonny and Carrie by asking his dad the most obvious question. If Sonny Elway was such a good judge of character and was going to send the detectives off in a completely different direction, the least he could do is offer a few crumbs along the way.

"Let's see, the three victims, did they know each other?" Sonny leaned back in his chair, enjoying the glory of being an NYPD consultant.

Tom and Carrie shook their heads.

"They got killed the exact same way, right, with this drone thing?"

"Yes," Tom said, "and we still can't get the footage from the company, it's too secure."

Sonny roared with laughter. "Well there's your answer. It's someone playing in the playground of the rich, famous, and forever unaccountable! It's probably some other ultra-rich bastard who thinks he doesn't live in the real world, he lives in the world of private security firms and litigation. You said they were all using the same elite Net Guardian system, right? Your perp likely used the same system, which is why he knew how to use it to his advantage."

Carrie and Tom looked at each other. Could it be that Sonny Elway was cooperating and giving good advice? An alarm went off — their visiting time was up. The guard came in to lead Sonny back to his cell, there wasn't much time for goodbyes. The duo waved at Sonny Elway as he was led back down the hall.

On the drive back to the city, Carrie asked Tom, "Do you think he's right? Do you really think we've been looking at the wrong guy?"

Tom just shrugged. The glow of the meeting had worn off and his usual gut feeling had returned. He wasn't sure he could trust Sonny Elway. Whenever Sonny made you feel like he was right, you should probably check your pockets and make sure your valuables were still there.

TWENTY-THREE

CARRIE

“Carrie, I thought about it for a long time, and I just don't think we should trust what my dad— what Sonny Elway— had to say. I think he wants to take the heat off his old buddy, his cellmate for six years. That bonds guys together, especially in prison, especially when one of them is protecting the other. It's not as if he knows what Trace Stuart is like now, something could have happened after he left prison to spur him toward vindictive and now violent actions toward the one percent. He also doesn't know what happened in that last year Trace Stuart was in prison, when they were no longer cellmates. I think we gave in way too easily, we need to find someone else who can corroborate what he's saying, we can't just take a criminal's word for it."

Carrie looked up from her laptop as Tom caught his breath. "Are you done?"

"Yes."

"Good because you're wrong," Carrie said, "And I think you know it." Carrie was done allowing Tom to taint their investigation with his father-son relationship issues. "If what he wanted to do was string you along for 'attention' and canteen money — which I don't think is as wildly unreasonable a request as you claim, especially seeing as you rarely ever see him — he would have given us a lot less about Trace Stuart. Besides, what he did say is consistent with Trace's previous criminal behavior and the case at hand."

Tom pouted.

Carrie shrugged; she was used to it. It was the same look Tom gave her every time she told him it was his turn to wash the dishes when they were undercover together. It was on the chore wheel, yet he was always surprised and tried to use backwards logic to somehow get out of it. Carrie turned her attention back to her laptop.

"Tom, you know I'm right," she said, just as she had said many times before.

"What do you mean that his attention seeking isn't as unreasonable?" he asked.

"If you would just call your dad sometimes or go visit the man, he probably would have agreed to talk about Trace even sooner. Instead, you just avoid him so much that when you do see him, it's so emotionally charged that you can't see past your own skepticism. I can't believe I let you take the lead on this, you aren't thinking like a cop. You're allowing him to get under your skin and it sabotages the interview every time! Sonny was right about Trace's criminal past, that it was more about politics and uncovering the truth than it was about revenge, right?"

"I guess."

"His posts, his articles, even the ideology that he talks about anytime someone gives him the chance — none of that is personal. These murders are personal. The fact that none of the footage from the murders has been released publicly indicates that they probably weren't crimes of passion. It couldn't be just about proving how insecure the Net Guardian system is, because no one has seen that. No one has seen the footage of drones chasing people through their homes."

"Sure," Tom conceded.

"Finally, any hacker worth their salt would brag about being able to crack the encryption on Net Guardian — it would prove they were faster than a quantum computer. Trace wouldn't hide that encryption key; he'd distribute it to his network so they could flood the server and take Cybermart down."

Tom didn't say anything as Carrie tore apart his argument in front of his eyes.

"And finally, based on Trace Stuart's writing and the conversation we had with him at his home, is he or is he not too obsessed with the internet to know who Teresa Walden was and why she was famous?" Carrie cocked her head and waited for Tom to catch up.

He pouted, looked away, and sighed before excusing himself to go to the bathroom.

"Just do the damn dishes, Tom, it's on the chore wheel," Carrie muttered to herself, reliving the arguments she used to have. She knew in about thirty-seconds, Tom would come back and apologize. Like clockwork, he was already on his way back, stopping at Carrie's seat. She turned around to face him.

"You have a point. But I need you to understand that I will always question my father," Tom said.

"I understand, Tom, and I appreciate that you aren't letting your doubts get in the way of our investigation," she said, gently so that Tom thought it was his decision to agree with Carrie all along.

Tom nodded and went off to make himself a coffee. Men were so predictable sometimes, you had to treat them with the most delicate gloves in case their emotions couldn't handle the truth.

Carrie turned back to her task at hand. She was drafting an email to Michael Davis' estate, requesting access to his personal computer hard drive so they could investigate it for evidence connecting him to the other victims. Considering how difficult and time consuming the process had been with Becky Light and Teresa Walden, Carrie was being very careful with her words in order to minimize the amount of back and forth with Davis' legal team. She was on a thesaurus website trying to find an alternative to the word 'pursuant' when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up and Detective Spade was pointing to the kitchen.

"I think your partner's trying to tell you something," he said, nodding at Tom.

Tom was jumping up and down, pointing at his throat while on the phone. Was he choking? Carrie shook her head and pointed at the computer. She didn't have time for Tom's little games right now, she was trying desperately to find a way to tie up this investigation. When she put her head down, Tom banged on the door and waved at her to come join him. Carrie rolled her eyes and got up, ready to scold Tom for attempting to play spastic charades in the middle of a busy paperwork day.

Carrie entered the kitchen and opened her mouth, but before she could say anything Tom raised a finger to her lips to shush her. Carrie froze and her stomach dropped, Tom looked her in the eyes as he moved his phone away from his ear and turned on speakerphone. A raspy modulated voice came on over the line.

"…much more do I have to give you, huh? You LAZY cops, I practically did your whole investigation for you and what thanks do I get? What do you have to show for it? I told you about Gordon Light's floor plans, I showed you the posts Trace Stuart made, didn't I? But Trace Stuart is still walking the streets slandering people online. Do you know what slander means? Huh? Do they have a dictionary down there at the precinct? Slander means he's badmouthing people online. Wealthy people, people with power. He's dangerous and you're just allowing him to spread his vile rumors without any consequences! If it were up to me I would sue you, and get you transferred to Siberia. I demand, DEMAND, to know why Trace Stuart is not in jail. I called this tip directly to you; I could have called Crimestoppers or the FBI but I found your phone number and called you! What more do you need, huh?"

The voice was so petulant that Carrie half expected the modulator to glitch and the sound of an angry thirteen year old boy would come over the line. She and Tom exchanged a look.

"What you gave us led us down the right path, don't get me wrong, but it isn't enough for the law. We need to find hard evidence that Trace Stuart was involved in the murders, if it's just circumstantial the DA won't give the case the time of day." Tom was trying to be calm.

However, Carrie could see he wanted to laugh at this tipster. Was this really the same guy who spooked Tom into hiding in the men's toilets?

The voice let out a whine. "You cops are so SLOW. Can you imagine if the world ran the way you run an investigation? You're just sad little LOSERS who don't have any power. You're clinging to what little power you do have with those silly little badges. I ought to come down there and show you how it's done!"

Carrie took the phone from Tom; she was sick of this immature little whiner interrupting their investigation and sending them down rabbit holes.

"Listen, you creep, we've been looking at Trace Stuart for weeks now and haven't found a thing. So why don't you tell us something concrete or get off the phone. Frankly I'm starting to doubt your information."

"Oh? And why is that?" the voice was fuming.

Tom had to sit in the chair to keep from laughing.

"Well for starters, I've seen Trace's data logs. He has been updating us with all of his internet activity on a weekly basis, so we know exactly what he's doing online. And it's automated so he isn't modifying it. At no point does he go on any hacker forums or talk about destroying the rich and dismantling society."

It was a bluff, Carrie knew and Tom knew, but the tipster couldn't know. Tom and Carrie had no idea what Trace was doing online — they probably should have set someone up to monitor it, but when they compared Trace's computer set up to the ancient equipment they had at the precinct they had a pretty good idea he'd be able to bypass any viruses or worms they tried to send his way. Hopefully, the voice on the other end of the line had no way of knowing it wasn't true.

"Idiots, he's using a VPN, you can't trust a single thing he says or does. Trace Stuart is a little punk who wouldn't know innovation if it bit him in the face. He keeps talking about Cybermart, have you seen that? As if he knows what goes on at Cybermart, he has no idea, he just sits behind his pathetic little computer and... and... kills people! Just like I said before, he's a pathetic little loser who kills other losers because none of them know what's good for them. None of them know that they have no power!"

Carrie almost felt bad for getting mad at Tom earlier. Compared to this guy, Tom was a rational, mature adult who understood the cycle of actions and consequences that made the world go round. She would take Tom's inability to read a chore wheel any day compared to the tipster's whining.

"If you do not arrest Trace Stuart, I'm done. I'm done with all of you and I'm taking this investigation into my own hands. I'll call the FBI with my information; I'll go right over your head to an institution that knows how to listen to American citizens. Are you gonna make me go over your head? Huh? I'm giving you one more week, then I'm taking over. And if you don't believe me, just watch."

There was a click and then the line went dead.

"That person is one haircut away from asking to speak to the manager," Tom said.

"What is with their Trace Stuart obsession? Do you think they are just a rival hacker or something?" Carrie asked.

"Maybe? The last time I got a call — I'm assuming it's from the same person, their number was blocked this time and last — the voice was reasonable. They named Trace Stuart as a genius hacker who hates the rich and that much was true so there was no reason to doubt their intel. It could be someone else this time, some rival who got wind of our investigation and is trying to wipe Trace Stuart off the map. Do we know who turned him in seven years ago?" Tom asked.

"He turned himself in, pretty much. Trace didn't hide that he was the one who exposed the donor list and pled guilty to the crime. He wasn't ashamed, didn't try to hide his work. It's like your dad was saying, his crimes are politically motivated. He thinks he is helping the greater good. Hiding from a crime makes it personal — for passion or for greed. Trace isn't motivated by either of those things."

Carrie thought about it for a moment longer. When they received the first tip it was easy to believe the murderer was Trace Stuart — in fact it was a relief. They had no leads in their investigation, no idea how the crimes could have been committed, the widow of the victim was blocking every attempt at gaining access or information that could help their case. It was easy to believe a guy with Trace Stuart's background, someone who openly called himself a cyber anarchist, would turn to violence against the people he said were a stain on society. He wanted to send them to the guillotine and got tired of waiting for the call of revolution.

"Tom, what if the tipper is just trying to weigh our hand. What if they just want us to arrest Trace Stuart?" Carrie said.

"Carrie, are you really asking me that question? He quite literally just demanded that we arrest Trace Stuart or he'll take matters into his own hands," Tom said.

Carrie brushed away his statement of the obvious. "I know he did, but it's not quite what I mean. Remember what your dad said, 'the rich, famous, and unaccountable,' what if this guy is the murderer, and he's setting Trace up as a patsy? He's trying to distract us by getting us to arrest Trace so he can go ahead and continue to murder people using the Net Guardian system. We'll be so tied up trying to tie these cases to Trace that he can just keep on killing people whenever he feels like it!" Carrie had a chip on her shoulder for anyone who would do such a thing and needed Tom to confirm her hunch was more than just an emotional connection to what brought down her beloved older brother.

"So what you're saying is, the private number is the rich bastard who my dad theorized is actually committing the murders, making it look like something Trace Stuart is capable of doing, and then calling me to tattle on him. Only this rich bastard didn't count on the fact that as cops we have to answer to more than just his authority, we're not some private security firm acting on his behalf."

"The private number didn't count on the fact that we are beholden to the greater good. That as long as they keep murdering people, we'll keep paying attention to those who are dying. We're not just after an arrest, we're after the truth. The guy was hoping we would toe the line, he didn't count on the fact that we are intelligent detectives who are after the truth."

"And now he's mad and wants to speak to our manager," continued Tom.

The duo smiled at each other.

"As if the FBI is our manager," Tom scoffed.

Carrie knew what they had to do. She ran back to her desk and sent off the email, not stopping to think about every detail. Carrie had more important things to do. Carrie had to meet with an anarchist.

TWENTY-FOUR

TOM

“Trace, please open the door. I don't want to go through the whole secret password thing again, you know who we are."

Trace Stuart's voice came through the small window by the door.

"I already told you, you have no business here. You wanted an interview I gave you one, and now I'm done, anything I say will just be used against me, I've seen how you work! I spent seven years behind bars, you think I don't know how you police officers gang up together against the people you think are criminals?"

Tom wanted to bury his head in his hands. He was exhausted, this case was draining every ounce of energy from him. From the emotional roller coaster that was dealing with his dad, to the headache-inducing frustration of dealing with the layers of 'security' around rich people, he was getting close to the end of his rope. Even Carrie's undying passion for the beauty of law enforcement was strained, he had never seen her act as recklessly as she had while chasing Trace Stuart and his potential accomplices. Carrie was sitting on the steps, holding two coffees and a Mountain Dew. The coffees were for the officers to stay awake during Trace's inevitable rants, and the Mountain Dew was a sort of peace offering for the anarchist hacker.

"We know you're an ethical hacker, one of the good guys. We just need to talk to you about Net Guardian. It's just a talk, no need for it to be anything more. We are unarmed, and we didn't even bring our handcuffs," he yelled through the door.

"Yes we did!" Carrie mouthed at Tom, and he motioned for her to keep her mouth quiet.

"I saw that. I saw her say you brought handcuffs. How am I supposed to trust you if you just tell lies to get whatever you want!" Trace yelled back.

That took Tom by surprise. Without realizing it, he was acting just like the so-called tipper who demanded that he arrest Trace Stuart. The caller was demanding because he was used to getting exactly what he wanted; Tom demanded to be let in because he was used to people doing exactly what a police officer asked. That tactic was never going to work on Trace, who was distrustful of government and often discussed power imbalances online.

"You can come back with a court order, but there's no way I'm speaking to you without witnesses!" Trace said.

"You're right, I was being unreasonable," Tom admitted.

Carrie looked up at him, shocked that he would do such a thing.

He rolled his eyes at her and continued, "I did lie about the handcuffs, but I'm taking them out of my belt, look," Tom turned to the window and made a show of taking his handcuffs out of his utility belt, motioning for Carrie to do the same. As she did, he continued, "We aren't here to interview you about your motives or involvement, we just need your help. I've heard you're willing to help people who need it, and we really do need your expertise, Trace. We have all these pieces of a case, but no one who can connect the dots for us. It's a huge challenge, it's supposed to be an encryption that only a super-computer can do." Tom paused, for some dramatic effect.

"A super-computer or a quantum computer?" Trace asked.

Tom smiled; he knew he was drawing Trace over to his side.

"My apologies, I meant a quantum computer. You can see why we need your help," he said. Tom knew he was turning on the charm, but he wasn't lying. If the mystery tipper was so adamant that Trace Stuart needed to be arrested for the Net Guardian murders, it must be because he knew something.

"Trace, can you help us build a case against our suspect? Whoever he is, we think he's a rich bastard himself who thinks he can get away with murder because he doesn't live in the real world. He lives in the world of private security firms and litigation."

Tom hoped that's what his dad said. It seemed like something Trace would respond to.

"If I help with this case, will you tell my parole officer? It counts toward my record, right, like good behavior when you're in jail?" Trace sounded hopeful, and it occurred to Tom that this lanky nerd was eager to avoid jail.

"We will, we'll let him know you've been an aid to our investigation," Tom confirmed.

There was a pause, and suddenly the locks on the door started to click open. Tom felt relieved, without Trace they would be back to the world of begging Net Guardian for a couple of minutes of footage that left them with more questions than answers. Trace opened the door and immediately eyed the bottle of Mountain Dew in Carrie's hand.

"Is that for me? Sweet!" he exclaimed, grabbing the bottle and disappearing into the apartment.

Carrie and Tom followed, taking the open door as a sign that Trace was ready to cooperate.

"Are you guys kidding? I could never afford a drone like that! That must be military grade, if it's able to keep up with a grown man running at top speed!" Trace laughed at the detectives' lack of understanding. "Sorry, I don't mean to make you guys feel bad, it's just the idea — I can think of a million other things I'd spend my money on before I'd spend it on a military-grade drone."

"How can you be sure it's military grade and not something that's been modified by an amateur?" Carrie asked.

They were showing him pictured of Michael Davis' house, and the other two crime scenes, trying to get a picture of what kind of weapon could have killed the Net Guardian users.

"It's more sophisticated than anything you can buy on the market right now. The shots are precise which means the drone was big enough to carry a sniper gun, and the tech was sophisticated enough to aim the gun exactly where it needed to go, and the drone was powerful enough to keep it hovering in the air while the gun made it's shot," Trace said this like it was obvious, and the detectives tried to hide how dumb they felt for not having drawn the same conclusion.

"Could it have been done by the Net Guardian drones themselves?" Tom asked.

"I don't think so. Those drones are small pieces of tech, not much different from the camera drones you can get at big box stores. This was probably separate from the Net Guardian system the users had. It wasn't just a security system gone haywire, these attacks were deliberate and conducted by and outsider," Trace said.

"How far would they have had to travel?" Carrie asked, "Would the person controlling the drone need to be nearby?"

"Probably not, if it is, as I suspect, military grade it likely gets a pass at using any airspace it wants provided it doesn't get in the way of commercial planes or anyone the government doesn't want to know it's using military drones on a regular basis. The person operating it may know the prime altitude they should use to stay out of everyone's way. That means they can, um, 'drive' the drone from the comfort of their own home whenever they want."

"Must be nice to be a killer who doesn't have to get his hands dirty," Tom muttered.

"Yeah, it probably saves on the dry cleaning bill. Hey, do you know a guy called Sonny Elway?" Trace Stuart asked.

"Why?"

"You look a lot like him. A lot like him. Good guy, way too charming for his own good, though." Trace Stuart shrugged.

Talking to him reminded Tom of talking to a cartoon character or an excited little kid. It was a stark contrast to the petulant childishness of the mysterious tipper. Trace had the energy of a kid excited to show off a school project or a new trick on their skateboard. Now that they got him talking about what he loved — hacking — he was a lot easier to understand.

"We do need your help with one more thing, Trace," Carrie said.

Tom was relieved she was here to get them back on track.

"We have the first victim's computer with us, his wife donated it to our investigation. There's a lot on here, but we still can't get past the two-factor authentication."

"Say no more!" Trace said, shrugging his shoulders. He took the laptop from Carrie and connected it to his bank of monitors. He opened up the Net Guardian suite and at first tried a couple of basic passwords to get into the system. When he finally ran out of passwords, the system froze his account and prompted him to create a new password. He then went into Gordon Light's email where, sure enough, a password reset email was waiting for Trace.

"Why didn't we think of that?" Carrie muttered.

Tom didn't say anything. It was really easy to do. Too easy, so easy that even Trace looked bored. He was really hoping for some cool hacker action that Trace would flip up his hoodie and all of a sudden, the screens would fill with mysterious code. Within that code Trace Stuart would find the exact phrase he needed — the authentication code. It would be lit up in the corner of one of the screens, blinking green on a black background. Maybe Trace wouldn't see it at first, but Tom, who was studying the screen like the ace detective he was, would see it first. "What's that?" he would have asked, and Trace would have followed where Tom was pointing to see six numbers highlighted in blinking green. "That's it!" Trace would exclaim, slowly typing each of the six numbers into the field requesting an authentication code.

Instead, Tom watched as a somewhat famous hacker did what he had to do an embarrassing number of times per day to log in to his official NYPD email account.

"There wasn't even a firewall," Tom muttered to himself.

Carrie heard him, and she gave him the same look she used to give Tom when he forgot it was his turn to do the dishes in their undercover married home. She never put the chore wheel in a place where Tom would actually see it, so of course he would forget sometimes that it was his turn.

Trace made a small noise and furrowed his brow. "Looks like this account is blocked by a security feature. Perhaps because the primary user died, they put the archival footage in an extra secure area where you still need the two-factor authentication code."

"Like a firewall?" Tom asked, trying to tone down his excitement.

"Yeah, kind of like a firewall, but don't worry, I have a program for that." Trace turned to another computer and plugged it in to Gordon Light's laptop. On that computer, he opened a program that looked like a binary slot machine. "It'll just be a minute; I don't think the encryption will be that strong for this area of the site. Do you guys want another coffee? I don't have any here because caffeine gives me the shakes, but there's a pretty decent coffee shop across the street if you— oh! It's done!"

Trace had barely finished talking when Gordon Light's laptop lit up with the archive of footage on the Net Guardian account page. It was listed by date, back to the first day they had recorded footage. Becky Light was under the impression that not a lot was being saved off the livestream, but the archive told a very different story. Hours and hours of footage was collected, some of it dull — the light from a window slowly moving across a Picasso on the wall.

"It's beautiful. Like an art piece or something," commented Trace.

Some of it the detectives recognized from the short clip they had been sent by Net Guardian previously. The incident they watched wasn't the only time Gordon Light had been followed by the drone camera — it had even followed Becky Light into her dressing room once.

"Can you skip to the last video? This is great, but we'll be here for days if we watch all of it," Carrie said.

"Sure, I'll go to the last clip."

Trace clicked on the last clip available, taken on the same day as Gordon Light's murder. The clip was from one of his living room cameras — the one on the wall opposite the window where he was shot. It starts off pretty dull — a beautifully decorated, empty room. Far on one side of the screen, you can catch the smallest glimpse of the East River and the boats and ferries crossing it. Gordon Light enters, seemingly in a huff. He's on the phone, makes himself a drink and sits on the couch holding his phone in front of his face. A couple of times he screams into the phone, and the trio winces every time — none of them wants to be on the receiving end of that.

Eventually, Gordon Light punches some text into his phone and throws it away. He takes a sip of his drink and⁠—

"What's that?" Tom pointed at the corner of the screen.

Trace followed Tom's gaze to a blurry… something in the corner of the screen. "That must be it!" he said.

"Can you blow it up?" Carrie asked.

Trace punched a couple of keys on the keyboard and made the image fill his bank of computer monitors like a mosaic of Gordon Light's security footage.

There in the corner of the frame was a blinking red dot. The red dot moved swiftly until it was right in front of where Gordon Light was sitting. It hovered in front of him, revealing a small rifle taking aim at the only target in the room. There was no blast, the trio only knew Gordon Light had been shot when he fell back in his chair.

Success!

TWENTY-FIVE

TOM

“We played military drone flashcards for about three hours and got absolutely nowhere," Carrie said, updating Tom on her latest research mission. She called her dad and asked him for help identifying the drone they found on Gordon Light's security feed as it was proving harder to find online. Searching "military drone" didn't bring up very many public feeds and information behind who manufactured them and whether or not a member of the public could purchase them was truly impossible.

"Maybe we need to go back to Trent, see if he can hack into some military catalog somewhere," he said.

"The military doesn't have a catalog where people can just buy drones, it isn't a department store, Tom."

Tom sometimes forgot that Carrie had been raised by a military man and her acceptance of Tom's goofy behavior and sarcasm usually stopped when they approached the subject. He put his hands up surrendering to Carrie and went back to work.

"Any news?" Gary Culbertson stood over the duo's desk expectantly. "Mrs. Light has been breathing down my neck lately, hoping for an answer to the case."

"We were able to access Gordon Light's Net Guardian system with Trace Stuart's help and saw that he was killed with the use of a military-grade drone. Trace has got copies of Michael Davis and Teresa Walden's hard drive now and is combing through them to see if their profiles match Gordon Light's. If it's the same drone, we can assume it was the same guy who killed all of them," Carrie explained.

"I thought you two liked Trace Stuart for the killer?" Culbertson asked.

"We did until we realized the killer's actions don't match Trace Stuart's persona. He's not motivated by personal factors, more political, but the murders seem to be personal and private. Also there's no way the guy could afford the tech. He puts all his spare change into charities promoting social programs or fixing up his own computer," Tom said.

"So you're back to having no suspects?"

Tom winced, Culbertson did not seem pleased. "Well, sir, once we narrow down where this military drone came from I think we'll have someone. It's not exactly a popular kid's toy I doubt the list of civilians in possession of a military grade weaponized drone is very long."

Culbertson turned to Tom. "You think that's funny, Elway? We have three people dead, the widow of one of them breathing down my neck, and you're talking like this investigation is a joke to you?"

"Sir, it's not a joke. Tom's the reason we're on this train, he's the one who got Trace to talk to us again and help us out. He's also the one who spotted the military drone in the security footage."

Tom's head whipped over to Carrie who didn't need to but was vehemently defending him to their Chief. He could have kissed her in that moment, he wasn't used to the feeling of someone close to him touting his accomplishments.

Culbertson paused and looked back at Tom. "Call the armed forces if you have to, I want that drone identified by the end of the day. This investigation has gone on too long already." He turned and went back to his office.

Tom and Carrie looked at each other over their desks. Carrie smiled at Tom, blushing, and turned back to her notes.

"According to my dad, there's a possibility the drones are RT-100 Hummingbirds, known for their small body and easy maneuverability. They can be modified to have weapons on them, but for the most part they're used on reconnaissance missions because they're small enough to get anywhere and easily blend in with their surroundings," she said.

"How do they do that?" Tom asked, if Carrie could act like it was nothing so could he.

"The main body of the drone is slightly reflective. Kind of like it's made from two-way glass, see?" She showed him a photo. "Because of that it's easy for the drone to reflect its surroundings and then to the naked eye it looks like nothing is there. On camera the drone usually looks just like a weird glitch, like a heatwave on a desert."

"That can't be the same one then, it shows up clearly on Light's security feed."

"That's what I thought at first, but what if our killer got their hands on a prototype or an unfinished model? I doubt the military would allow a civilian to have the same stealth tech they're using on reconnaissance missions, maybe a different model was produced that our perp bought?" Carrie theorized. It was a stretch, but so had everything else in this investigation.

"Who manufactures the RT-100 Hummingbird?" Tom asked.

"I'm not sure, I'm trying to find that information now." The two of them went back to their research — there was some information on the RT-100 Hummingbird on online forums and military blogs but mostly about how it cost about over a million to produce one unit, and the maintenance cost and labor were also high.

"If a civilian has this, he has got to have an insane amount of money," Carrie said.

"Agreed," said Tom, "this isn't something your average tech fanboy would be able to maintain. The number of moving parts in this machine are⁠—"

"I've lost count. If you were doing this yourself you'd be spending all day just to keep it flying!" Carrie typed furiously at her computer. "Searching military drone mechanics will get you nowhere, in case you were wondering," she said, sighing. "I think I'm going to get myself a coffee and some lunch. You want anything?" she asked Tom as she got up.

"The usual, I'll be here I'm on a bit of a roll," he said waving her off. Tom watched Carrie walk away thinking about how this past year had brought them so close together. Sometimes Carrie drove him absolutely up the wall and sometimes he just wanted to hold her. Every once in a while he just wanted to⁠—

Tom shook his head. There was a thought that hadn't entered his head in a while. They had both been so absorbed in the case that Tom's feelings of unfinished business after their undercover work had been cast aside. Now that he had a spare thought in his mind, he went right back. He went back to his computer, better to bury himself in research than entertain an idea that was never going to happen anyway.

Carrie was right, searching 'military drone mechanic' turned up a corner of the internet that Tom would prefer to forget. The only reasonable conclusion was that whoever bought this drone had to be technically proficient enough to maintain it themselves. Tom made a couple quick calculations in his head based on the figures he found online — for someone to own, operate, and maintain an RT-100 Hummingbird drone they would have to be a billionaire in their own right. When you factor in the fact that their perp had kept the drone hidden — so far there were still no reports of a military drone flying over the streets of Manhattan — that added another couple million to the total.

Sonny Elway was right, whoever was committing these murders was a rich bastard himself. Tom took a walk to clear his head, he went to the evidence locker, into his and Carrie's co-opted meeting room, over to the kitchen, and back to his desk. General internet research wasn't helping them, Carrie's dad could almost identify the drone but couldn't tell then where to get one; where could Tom look that would lead him in the direction of purchasing a multi-million dollar military drone?

A lightbulb finally went off in Tom's head, he had to go back and look in the same place they started with this investigation. Tom had to go back to his journey in the dark web. Journeying through the dark web was once something Tom could confidently say he would never need to do in his life as an NYPD detective, yet he'd spent more time in that scary black hole than he cared to admit lately. It was fascinating what you could find and it all made Tom's stomach turn. A decommissioned or otherwise inactive military drone was just the sort of thing that would go up for auction on some of the forums Tom had seen.

He logged in to the worst of the bunch, one he once thought Trace Stuart would be considered king but he had since learned that users of this forum didn't care for his altruistic outlook on the world. These were the true anarchists who wanted nothing more than to watch the world burn.

He typed RT-100 Hummingbird into a search bar and he saw more posts on the drone than he had seen anywhere else on the internet. A lot of people who admitted they'd steal what they could to get their hands on it but didn't want to deal with the constant maintenance. Tom noticed there was one user who kept posting in defense of the RT-100, the user got into long arguments with anyone who dared say the RT-100 Hummingbird wasn't the best military drone that had been developed in the last twenty years. He clicked on this guy's profile and saw many angry posts made in defense of the Hummingbird and Cybermart.

"Cybermart?" Tom muttered to himself. How did this case keep going back to the tech company? he supposed it made sense, if the perp had enough access or money to hack into Net Guardian, it's only logical that he'd use another Cybermart project to kill his victims. Tom did another search on the forum, 'RT-100 Hummingbird + Cybermart' and found post after post talking about Cybermart's military contracts and how that was the key to profitability with modern tech companies. According to these guys Cybermart's model of pursuing military contracts and using their technological innovations to benefit them in that area was the only way to really make money, not the outward-facing online sales of gadgets and household items.

The pieces of this investigation were finally coming together. Someone at Cybermart must have either purchased or stolen one of the prototype military drones the company had produced in contract with the American military. They then used their knowledge of a decryption key or back door to bypass the secure features of the Net Guardian security system and used it to spy on their victims. Once they had a basic understanding of the victims' home, they chose a window that would be easy to access and easy to escape from with the Hummingbird, after that it was just a waiting game. With the killer's knowledge of the Net Guardian system he could predict when his victims would be home alone and if they weren't in the right place he could take over control of their personal security drone to lure them to the right room in their home. Once they were there, the killer shot them with the RT-100 Hummingbird, flying it away without leaving a single trace.

"One coffee and one shawarma — with all the toppings," Carrie handed Tom his lunch, but he could only stare up at her with his jaw hanging open. "What? You order the same thing all the time, are you really that surprised that I remember?"

"It's someone at Cybermart," he told Carrie.

She looked at the shawarma for a second, before it finally clicked.

"The killer? Who?"

"I'm not sure, but it must be someone high up in the company, probably someone who is involved with their private contracts. The RT-100 Hummingbird was developed by Cybermart, as part of a contract that is separate from their public online-everything-mart business."

"So they had access to prototypes of the drone, plus enough technical knowledge to maintain it, and access to the rumored Net Guardian decryption key!"

Tom smiled, he didn't even need to try and get Carrie on the same wavelength, she was already there.

"We need to call Trace, see where he's at with the Michael Davis and Teresa Walden hard drives."

Carrie dropped their food on the desk, forgetting about her appetite. She dialed Trace's number while Tom dug into his takeout.

"How can you eat at a time like this?" Carrie exclaimed.

Tom shrugged his shoulders — when he was hungry he was hungry, besides if Trace was deep in to 'hacker mode' he probably wouldn't even answer the phone.

Tom was wrong, Trace answered on the first ring. "Wow, freaky. Are you guys watching me?" he asked, "I was about to call! I'm done with the hard drives and I think I found something you'll find interesting."

"We'll be right down," Carrie said as she motioned to Tom.

Tom wrapped up his sandwich and grabbed his coat, lunch could wait.

"Do you want the bad news or the disgusting news first?" Trace said when they arrived at his apartment.

"We'd like to come inside first, Trace," Carrie deadpanned.

Trace excitedly waved them in. "Sorry about that, I forgot my manners for a second there. It's really exciting and so interesting. I knew the Net Guardian system was unsafe for the public, I mean, Penske was so secretive about the technology used saying only that it was 'so secure the military could use it,' but I knew it wasn't possible for the information stored in the servers to ever be completely foolproof. Whenever someone says a service or piece of tech has military capabilities, in my opinion, that means it is more vulnerable to attack. Militaries are trained to attack militaries that means that hacker without a conscience is ready to exploit a vulnerability and either sell it off or use it for their own purposes." Trace walked into the apartment and trailed off, ignoring the detectives.

They followed him in, back to his computer room and the hacker-esque bank of monitors on his desk.

"This is going to blow your minds," he said, tapping a keyboard. Trace may have been a hacker and a nerd, but he certainly also had a flair for the dramatic. "I present to you, a disturbing picture of Matt Penske's psyche," he said.

"Penske — the owner of Cybermart?" Tom needed to confirm that the answer really had been staring them in the face this entire time.

"The one and only narcissistic, demanding, petulant baby of the internet himself," Trace said, rolling his eyes. "That guy has the most fragile ego on the internet and believe me I have seen some fragile internet trolls."

"Wait — what makes you think Penske is behind this?" Carrie asked.

"Let's move in chronological order, shall we? Teresa Walden, Hollywood royalty, and Penske's very public crush. He talked about how he was obsessed with her in interviews and stuff. According to her emails they met about a year ago at a party and he immediately started pursuing her. The emails detail kinda creepy behavior on Penske's part, there's one email where she thanks him for a negligee which I think is a wildly inappropriate gift. Anyway at one point, she sends him an email thanking him for their 'time together' and that she just 'can't keep up with his lifestyle' — a soft rejection, in my opinion." Trace took a deep breath and tapped a new screen revealing a series of numbers that Tom couldn't understand.

"What is this?" he asked.

"This, Tom, is Teresa Walden's internet traffic. See how there's this six digit number that keeps appearing? That is someone else's IP address — I think it's Matt Penske's IP address — and if you dig a little deeper, you can see there's a program here that is directing all of Teresa Walden's internet traffic straight to that IP address," Trace explained. "He was cyberstalking her, in case that wasn't as clear. I checked the calendar that was available to her and it looks like Matt Penske made sure he appeared at every party she was invited to, and showed up for dinner reservations as well?"

"What makes you say that?"

"I checked entertainment and gossip websites. There were rumors that the two were involved mainly from the fact that they were always photographed at events together and seen exiting the same restaurants together." Trace opened up the next part of his presentation, a series of photographs of Matt Penske and Teresa Walden taken by paparazzi and event photographers. "Look at how he's clutching her waist like she's about to run away from him! Ugh, the dude is disgusting."

"I agree with you, but I don't see how this leads to Teresa's murder?" Tom said.

"I'm getting there! So when I decrypted the Net Guardian footage I found these videos, there's a lot of them." Trace tapped his computer again, and on all of his monitors were videos taken from the Net Guardian drone of Teresa Walden in her dressing room, going to bed, and in various states of undress. In all of the videos, she would see the drone and bat it away, but the drone persisted and remained in the room. Teresa Walden would end up hiding as she tried to change.

"Oh my God!" Carrie exclaimed.

Tom's skin was crawling, this behavior was beyond invasive and wasn't humorous the way it was when Gordon Light was swatting the drone away from him.

"Yeah, I wondered why I didn't hear about it in the papers, but then I found this on her computer and realized — she may not have reported it publicly, but when she tried to hold Cybermart accountable they buried the litigation⁠—"

"—under a gag order! That must be what her lawsuit was about, she names Cybermart, Net Guardian, and Penske!" Carrie frantically made a note for herself.

"I'm not sure she thought it was Penske who was behind it. The lawsuit claims 'an employee' was watching her. After that rejection email with Penske, he sends another back apologizing to her, so I'm sure he was acting as a friend while secretly stalking her," Trace said, "you can see the same military drone in the footage taken when she died." He tapped a keyboard and played the grainy footage from that night.

"There was a camera in the bathroom?" Carrie asked.

"Yeah," he said, "according to the emails, Penske was the one who sent her a Net Guardian system — as a friendly gesture, he knew she was paranoid about security — he arranged the set up so I'm guessing he programmed a hidden camera in the bathroom too."

"She must never have known about it. When Teresa Walden was killed she had already gotten rid of the Net Guardian system. If she had known there was a camera in the bathroom, she definitely would have torn it out of the wall like the rest of them."

Tom felt like he was going to throw up. Sure this whole investigation was plagued with entitled ultra-rich people but this kind of behavior was beyond what he expected.

"Michael Davis was a little more straightforward," Trace said, moving on from the Teresa Walden footage. "He got into it with Penske online — but he didn't know it was Penske." Trace tapped his keyboard and continued with his presentation, showing the officers a continuous scroll of the comments section of the last post on Michael Davis' blog, 'Money with Mike'. It read like an inarticulate school bully fighting the chess club captain for lunch money.

"Penske must have been very spoiled as a child," Tom muttered.

"This exchange happens just hours before Davis was killed, and it's in a post talking about Cybermart and Net Guardian's publicity woes as a result of Gordon Light and Teresa Walden's murders. It's funny because it's not like the downturn in sales and the stock sell-off was a secret, it was the leading story on all the business news outlets. The thing is in his post Michael Davis also mentions the problems he's been having with the Net Guardian — specifically the drone. Obviously I then decrypted his files and—" Trace tapped another keyboard and the screens were each filled with a different video, but all very similar footage. The Net Guardian drone following Michael Davis into what looked like his office and zooming in on financial information displayed on his computer. In every video, Michael Davis noticed and either swatted the drone away, or tuned on his phone attempting to regain control of the unit from his user account.

"You'd think the guy would change it up a bit," Carrie said.

"Penske isn't that creative," Trace said. "I think this one was a little less planned than the others. I scoured Michael Davis' archive, but it looks like the drone and other cameras didn't act up in the same ways as they did with Gordon Light and Teresa Walden. I'm guessing the reason he was chased through his house was that Penske decided to kill him in the heat of the moment so he didn't have as much time to plot the layout of the house."

Tom and Carrie were stunned. If they had listened to Trace instead of the anonymous tipster, they would have closed this case a month ago. Instead they were given the runaround by Penske who clearly thought he was too rich to be touched by the NYPD.

Penske

Penske sat in his office listening to the detectives' meeting. He was using Carrie Blake's Cybermart account to listen in using her phone. Lucky for Penske, she was one of many, many people who didn't actually read privacy agreement and blindly agreed to them, so she had no idea that as part of Cybermart and Net Guardian's privacy policy, the microphone on her phone could be accessed through her Net Guardian account, even though she never fully completed the sign up process.

He was silently fuming. He had given them Trace Stuart, what more could they possibly need? And instead of actually listening to him, the idiot police officers decided to partner with the altruistic little punk and learned too much for their own good. He knew he should have pressured the police department himself but figured this way he could keep his precious Net Guardian system away from any more bad press.

No matter, he knew what he had to do, and once he did this whole ordeal would finally be over.

TWENTY-SIX

CARRIE

“You have got to be kidding me," Rachel Winters said.

The detectives finally got the Assistant District Attorney to come down to the precinct. They knew convincing her would require some work and prepared a presentation — well, they borrowed the presentation Trace gave them — to persuade her to draw up a search warrant for Matt Penske's home and office. After reviewing all their case materials, Tom and Carrie knew they had the right guy in Penske, but they also knew that getting a search warrant for a man of his stature would not be an easy task.

When they took their brief to Culbertson, he laughed in their face. "This is a joke, right?" He turned to Tom. "Is this your idea? Wasting my time, and your partner's time, by coming up with a ridiculous request?"

The partners were serious, and after they presented Culbertson with what they knew, even he had to admit, it was starting to look like Penske was hiding behind his name.

"You guys can go ahead and take this to the DA. But mark my words, if you are wrong, there will be hell to pay, and not just from me — from all of the top brass in the department. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," They had replied.

Now here they were presenting to Rachel and she was having a similar reaction.

"Rachel, we know this is not what you wanted to hear," Carrie said.

"No! No, it was not. I thought when we got Teresa Walden's hard drive, we were done with the impossible requests, but now I see you were just warming me up! Do either of you know how much work I have piled up on my desk? Do you know how much more paperwork is going to land on there when word gets out that I have a search warrant drawn up for Matt Penske and his Cybermart office?" Winters started pacing in the small meeting room. She kept looking back at their whiteboard and the computer on which they played the video.

"Let me see the footage again," she said.

Carrie moved over to the laptop and played it all; Gordon Light being chased by his drone, Gordon Light shot by an RT-100 Hummingbird; Teresa Walden being stalked inside her own home; and Michael Davis trying to reprogram the drone that was stealing financial information from him. Winters chewed on her bottom lip and picked up all the printouts the detectives made of the various complaints the three victims had against Net Guardian.

"He has a motive, access to the drone as well as access to Net Guardian's secure servers, and he's the only person in common with all three victims," Carrie said, "he's our guy, Rachel, but we need that drone. We know he keeps it nearby, so it must be at his home or office. Once we're there, we'll probably find more, but we need that search warrant to continue building this case."

Rachel was quiet for a long time, and Carrie really thought she was going to say no to them. Then, finally, Winters stood up and said, "You better be right." She started to walk out of the room. "You'll hear back from us in a day or two. Gonna take a minute to make sure I've got the wording of this warrant airtight to get past his legal team."

Carrie and Tom collapsed in their chairs, relieved that they were successful in their quest to get a search warrant. "What do we do now, Tom?" Carrie asked.

"All we can do now is wait," Tom replied.

Carrie hated waiting. She went over the whole case file until her eyes felt like they were going to start bleeding, combing through the thing, hoping some other shred of evidence would fall out like a golden nugget. Her phone buzzed again; it was her brother Carl inviting her to dinner at their parent's house on Long Island. Carrie hadn't talked to Carl for the past few weeks, but she had stopped by his apartment and given it a thorough cleaning because it had needed it. Mostly she had been incredibly busy with the case and just hadn't had the time to join him for the ritual of cake and coffee.

"Carrie! You have to come — you've bailed on too many cake and coffee dates."

Carrie didn't respond. A few minutes later, he sent another text.

"Please come. I want to explain."

Explain what, she wondered. Carrie picked up her phone and texted the family group chat.

" I'll be there tonight! Gonna be late, working on a case!"

It just felt easier to send a message to everyone and not have to confront Carl directly. She was about to file away her notes when she received an email from Cybermart prompting her to complete her Net Guardian account. It had happened so many weeks ago that Carrie had completely forgotten she tried to make one in the first place. Knowing what she did now, she didn't feel comfortable having her information on the site. If Matt Penske was as good of a hacker as he claimed to be, he could probably easily find everything about her online. Trace Stuart had lectured the detectives on good cybersecurity hygiene, and Carrie realized she had done literally everything on his 'don't do' list.

Carrie logged into the Net Guardian browser that was still on her computer, going through the painstakingly slow process of signing into the website. After what seemed like hours, she finally found the option to 'cancel your account', and 'delete your information'.

"Yes, please," she said, clicking the button.

"Are you sure you would like to delete your account?"

"Yes!" Carrie said aloud to the inanimate screen, clicking the confirm button.

"Free month of Net Guardian — on us! Select 'yes' to continue."

Carrie selected the only option — 'yes' — and was redirected to her account renewal page, where the discount for the free month had been applied. Resisting the urge to throw her computer across the room, Carrie went back to the main page and started the whole process over again. She was not going to leave the precinct until she had deleted her Cybermart account.

Penske

Matt Penske was watching all of this on his own computer. He used the Net Guardian back door to watch through Carrie's computer camera and laughed to himself as she struggled to delete her account. He watched the last few minutes of his access to Carrie Blake's life, slowly waving goodbye.

Carrie Blake could go. Penske already had everything he needed from her.

Carrie

Carrie arrived at her parent's house late to dinner. After the usual ribbing, she sat down across from her brother Carl, smiling at him.

After dinner, Carrie volunteered to wash up.

"I'll help you," Carl said and Carrie didn't protest. They did the dishes in silence for a while until Carl said, "I'm guessing you found my beer cans when you cleaned up."

Carrie cleared her throat. "Yeah, I did. Wasn't sure what to think of the whole scene."

" I'm sure you saw that I had nothing but non-alcoholic beer that whole night. I swear I haven't gone back to my former ways."

"I know. That stuff is gross, I don't know how you can drink it." Carrie laughed.

"It truly is. I only drink it because Mom always buys it for me, thinking it'll make me feel like one of the boys again."

"You know, you don't have to do that to feel normal, right?" "The thing is, I'm not sure 'normal' is right for me. I had twenty years on the force, and it ruined my marriage. Then the whole thing with Benny happened and I just went downhill. I don't want to do that again. I should have cleaned up my own mess. I would have if you hadn't broken in⁠—"

"—I didn't break in! I used a key!" Carrie said, laughing.

Carl raised his eyebrows and continued, "The day you so kindly let yourself in without asking and cleaned up my mess and— made me realize I need to take better care of my home life and me."

"Wow. That's the healthiest thing anyone in this family has ever said. I'm really proud of you, Carl, getting your life back together the way you have."

"Thanks, Carrie." Carl smiled and then flicked her with the towel playfully, like he used to do when they were kids.

Carrie laughed and felt more relaxed than she had in a long while.

Carrie's drive home felt peaceful. It kind of felt like her life was coming back together after being stretched at the seams — months undercover with Tom, coupled with taking care of her brother, and her strained relationship with her mom all took a toll on her that she didn't appreciate until tonight. She could finally understand that her brother didn't need her to hover over him and watch out for every danger coming his way.

The months undercover with Tom were frustrating, but Carrie was starting to see past how incredibly annoying he was to the qualities Tom had that complimented her own. She and Carl talked a bit about changing perspectives, and he suggested that maybe her frustrations with Tom had a different source than just annoyance.

"You know what they say about boys who annoy you on the playground, right?" He had said.

Carrie brushed it off, but Carl pointed out how hard she blushed whenever he mentioned Tom.

"It's because you have that look in your eye like you're watching me kiss a boy on the playground for the first time or something," she said.

Carl just shrugged.

Carrie was so busy reflecting on her night, that she didn't see the black sedan following her on the state highway. The roads were dark and surrounded by trees — she hated taking the interstate and always took the long way back to Manhattan. The black sedan disappeared into the night behind her every time another car passed the two of them on the road. Suddenly, the sedan came up behind her and bumped her car. She regained control quickly and was on alert — was it just an accident, a tired driver who wasn't paying attention to how close she was?

As that thought passed through Carrie's mind, she saw the unmarked black sedan pull up beside her. With its tinted windows rolled up, she couldn't see who was driving, so instead she focused on getting out of what could be a dangerous situation. She sped up to pass him, but the sedan kept pace with her and started edging toward her. Carrie looked to her right into the copse of trees, if this guy ran her off the road, it could be a very bad accident. At that moment, Carrie felt another bump to the side of her car, and it was all she could do to keep it from spinning out of control. She focused on driving, slowing down slightly, but everything she did, the sedan copied. It was a lot bigger than her little two-seater and had a lot more power on the road. The road was empty, which was not entirely unusual on a weeknight going into Manhattan. If Carrie could just keep up with the sedan, try to predict what it was going to do, maybe she could survive this drive home.

She spoke to her phone's automatic assistant, "Call Tom."

Tom was the first person who came to Carrie's mind, the one person who might know how to get her out of this situation. The phone just kept ringing and ringing, until she heard an automatic voice telling her that Tom's voicemail inbox was full.

"Ugh, Tom!" she screamed, and just as she did, the sedan sped up, got in front of her and slowed back down.

Carrie swerved into the left lane, just barely avoiding the car's bumper, and just as she did the sedan got behind her and started to speed up. Carrie was nervous, but she steeled herself and just drove. She swung into the right lane, expecting the car to follow, her tiny car's tires were not built for this kind of driving. The sedan came up beside her, and now that the driver knew he had her on edge, messed with her directionality, and put stress on her tires, the sedan started to properly run her off the road. It was like one of those car races in movies from the 50s, with the sedan slowly inching closer and closer, and all Carrie could do was try to keep control of her car.

Carrie's whole car shook as the sedan pushed her on to the rumble strip. If she could just pull ahead, maybe the sedan would be the one to lose control and drive itself into a tree. Carrie slammed her foot on the gas, but the sedan was too fast for her, it sped up as well and gave her one last push that sent her car flying off the highway.

TWENTY-SEVEN

TOM

Tom didn't intend to fall asleep in his new chair, it just sort of happened sometimes. He had been really tired as this case went on and on and honestly, the new chair he bought after Carrie commented on his old one was really comfortable. He woke up as his phone buzzed beside him

— ten missed calls from one, Carrie Blake. What on earth could be this important right now?

"Hello?" Carrie's weak voice came on the line.

Tom immediately shot up in his chair. "Carrie? Is everything all right?"

"No, Tom!" Carrie exploded on the other end of the line, and Tom had to hold his ear away from the phone, "Everything is not all right!"

"What happened, what's going on? Why did you call me?"

"I got run off the road, Tom, I called because it was an emergency and I thought to call you but of course you didn't answer, and I got run off the road because your voicemail inbox is full, Tom!" Carrie was screaming, but it sounded like she had stuffed cotton balls in her mouth.

"Where are you? What's wrong with your mouth?" That was a stupid question, and Tom held the phone away from his ear in preparation for what Carrie would say next.

"I hit my chin on the steering wheel and my lip is swollen. It really hurts," Carrie said, "and I dislocated my shoulder. I need to go to the station, Tom. I'm on Long Island."

"Carrie, it sounds like you need to go to a hospital." Tom was still on the phone, but he was getting his clothes back on ready to join Carrie wherever she was. "Where are you right now?"

"I'm at the State Police Department in Hempstead, luckily there was a speed trap ahead, and I managed to get a call-out before he got to it. He was speeding too, so he would've gotten caught

— " Carrie cut herself off, "I'm fine — just get me another painkiller. Extra-strength!" she called out to someone else.

Tom assumed it was some poor junior cop at the station assigned to watch Carrie. Tom felt bad for the kid, Carrie was not pleasant when she was in pain.

"Tom, are you coming or will I be interrogating this guy myself?" she snapped into the phone.

"Hempstead State Department — I'm on my way," he said, hanging up the phone. Tom wasn't sure why Carrie was so bent on interviewing some driver who was probably tired or drunk or both, but the sooner he got to her, the sooner he could get Carrie to a hospital to check on her injuries.

"Penske sent him," Carrie said, as soon as she saw Tom.

Tom looked at her, relieved. Carrie looked bruised and battered, a little crazed behind the eyes, but overall, she was fine. Her arm was in a sling and her lip was very swollen, but she was awake and aware enough to start badgering Tom the second he came through the door.

"What makes you think that?" he asked, gently guiding her to a chair.

"Unmarked vehicle, tinted windows. The guy in there screams 'expensive private security firm', and he deliberately tried to run me off the road, Tom. He was an expert driver, it's like he knew what I was going to do before I even had the thought to do it!" she said.

Knowing what they knew about Penske, it wasn't an outrageous thought.

"But why you? How could he know where you live? Where your parents live, for that matter?"

"I had a Net Guardian account. I signed up for it when we first got this case, when we were trying to get footage from Gordon Light, remember?"

"But you never finished signing up, you stopped at the step where you pick a Net Guardian or whatever."

"I didn't go through with the service, but I signed up for an account. I forgot about it until earlier tonight, actually. If he had as much access as we think, Penske could have got my address from the website and, I don't know, put a hit out on me or something!"

Until she said that last part, Tom really did believe her.

"Carrie, I'm gonna go in there first, okay? I know we're both paranoid about Penske, but what you're saying doesn't make sense yet. Why would he do this now, why not when we first subpoenaed the company?" he asked.

"I don't know, I-I still have a headache. I just have this gut feeling that it was Penske behind this."

Tom looked into Carrie's eyes, and he knew she really did believe it, and at that moment Tom wanted her to be right. "I'll poke my head in. See if he's just a tired old dad trying to speed home to his kids, or if he really is the scary bodyguard you claim." Tom winked and walked out of the room. He called back through the door, "Maybe drink some water or have a juice or something."

Tom walked over to the holding cell, where he found a man who was definitely not a kind old dad who was rushing home to his kids. The man who tried to run Carrie off the road was at least six feet tall and built like an ancient oak tree. The man's bicep was as big as Tom's head — this was definitely Penske's man, but how could Tom prove it?

"Evening, sir, I hear you were having a bit of road trouble," Tom said.

Penske's man just stared past him.

Tom cleared his throat. "Do you have a name, or…?"

One of the officer's called over from down the hall, "His name's Andy!"

"Andy! Nice name!" Very boyish for a man of his size, Tom thought.

Andy barely registered what Tom was saying.

"So, Andy, were you just tired or were you sent by someone to disrupt my partner's leisurely drive home? The sooner you tell me, the sooner we can wrap this up and go home."

Andy continued to stare at the wall behind Tom's head. This irked Tom, just a little bit. First of all, this guy was the reason he had been woken up from a very nice sleep on his very comfortable chair and forced to drive over an hour out to Long Island, of all places, to continue doing work.

Tom was a dedicated police officer, which meant he enjoyed his free time above all other things. To top all of that off, Andy had hurt and could have killed his partner. The idea that Tom would have to continue working without Carrie by his side lit a fuse under him.

"All right, Andy, if you're not going to talk, I guess I'll run your plates against the system, see if you have any other minor traffic accidents on record. While we're doing that, I think I'll do a quick search of your name and prints and see if they come up on any minor scuffles in the past."

He still sat, not talking.

"While I put your name through our system, I'll also search your car, which has been held at on suspicion of aggressive driving. This is just so I can find out whom you work for — and if I find a scrap of evidence that you work for Matt Penske, hang out with Matt Penske, or so much as brushed up against Matt Penske on the street I will make sure you don't see the light of day on the charge of attempted murder against an NYPD officer."

That at least caused Andy to blink in Tom's direction.

Tom smiled — he had said the magic word and Andy had turned from a pumpkin into a carriage. He started walking off down the hall, and he heard Andy get up behind him and walk toward the bars of his cell.

Tom went to check on Carrie, who was sitting with an ice pack to her lip.

"Well?"

"I think I'll let him stew for a minute."

"Okay."

The pair sat in silence for a bit. Tom didn't want to be obvious about how worried he was, so he kept stealing glances at Carrie and making sure she wasn't getting paler while sitting there.

"Can you stop doing that?" Carrie asked.

"I'm not doing anything," he said, "but hey, how's your head feeling? Do you feel any dizziness or nausea?" Tom was trying to remember what the first signs of a concussion were. "Did you black out when your head hit the steering wheel?"

"I don't have a concussion, Tom."

"You don't know that yet. You know, plenty of people die because they have a concussion, and they go to sleep, I'm just trying to keep you awake and aware. Like they said in safety training."

Carrie chuckled, then winced with the pain from her lip. "Can we go back in there? I wanna get this guy to confess, so I can go home and have a hot bath."

Tom smiled, that's the Carrie he knew. The cop who loved the job so much, she wanted to get one last perp in before turning in for the night.

The duo walked slowly down the hall and stood outside of Andy's cell.

"I don't know Penske."

"We haven't said anything about Penske," Carrie said, "but now that you mention it, how long have you been working for him?"

"I don't work for him; I work for a private security firm." Andy smirked. Obviously, he wasn't going to make this easy for the detectives.

"What's the private security firm's name?"

"You two don't make enough money to know what it's called," he said.

"You're an exclusive man! You must make a lot of money then," Tom said.

Andy just shrugged.

"It's a good thing too, public defenders tend to have a hard time when their cased go up against a member of the police department. With the money, you make not working for Matt Penske, you could hire a private lawyer, I bet."

"It's too bad you don't work for him, actually. He could really hook you up," Carrie said.

Andy was starting to get uncomfortable.

"It's true — and it's not just us," Tom continued Carrie's thread. "That car might be in bad shape. You've definitely dented a fender and if you are being charged with intentionally aggressive driving you know the insurance is not going to cover that."

"That's why you never work alone," Carrie continued, "at the end of the day it costs too much."

The cops looked Andy dead in the eye. They were going down an unusual road, and it's possible that they were still infected with Trace Stuart's disdain for the ultra-wealthy, but it seemed to be working. Andy was getting uncomfortable in his seat.

"Why don't we go check on his car, Tom?" Carrie said, turning to her partner, "it might give us more clues to his motive for running me off the road."

"That's a great idea, Carrie, if Andy here has a grudge against you, we might be able to turn this case of aggressive driving into an assault charge — or even attempted murder if you find out he's been working alone to find you for some time." Tom gently took Carrie's elbow that was in a sling, and she swallowed a wince.

The detectives walked back down the hall, letting Andy stew in his decision for a little while longer.

When they went back into the waiting room, the junior officer was waiting for them.

"We did a search of his car to see if we could find evidence of drinking, but all we found was a printout/" He handed them a page — Carrie's Net Guardian account, complete with all of her personal information including license plate. "Will it help?"

The duo smiled and nodded, which clearly made the rookie's day. Tom looked down at the paper. "Wow, you really didn't pay attention to any of Trace's tips for staying secure online, did you?"

Carrie snatched the page out of Tom's hand. "I don't need that right now, maybe just focus on the task at hand? Should we just go back in there with this and call it a day?"

"No, let's have a coffee or something. I need a pick me up." He waved over the rookie like he was a waiter and ordered a couple of coffees for him and Carrie. They sat in silence for a while.

"I'm really glad you're okay," Tom said.

Carrie just smiled.

"Andy!" Tom knocked one of the bars to get the prisoner's attention. "You ready to talk or what?"

Andy turned around with a scowl on his face, and the scowl deepened when he saw what Carrie was dangling in front of the bars of the jail cell.

"It looks to me like he's ready to talk to us, Tom."

Andy collapsed into his seat. "What's in it for me? You can't force me to talk, I know my rights!"

"Right now, you have two rights. The right to go to jail for running my partner off the road, or the right to be a state's witness and tell us why your boss, Matt Penske, told you to run my partner off the road. Which one's it gonna be, Andy?"

Andy looked between Tom, Carrie, and the incriminating page of Carrie's personal details. It didn't take him very long to make a decision.

"Fine."

"Fine, what?" Tom asked.

"You both know it was Penske. He's pissed — especially at you," he said, pointing to Carrie.

"Why, especially at me?" she asked.

"You were close to believing the Trace Stuart thing" Andy laughed. "Penske thought his whole plan was going perfectly. Then you start talking to some guy and everything falls apart for him. He's pissed it's not going his way. No one says no to Matt Penske."

That was what made Tom's blood boil. He turned on his heels and walked back to the waiting room. Carrie followed shortly after, already calling Rachel Winters to make sure she could expedite the warrants for a search of Penske's home. Tom kept making fists with his hands and started pacing the waiting room, he just couldn't believe it. All this because Penske wasn't getting his way? All this trouble because Penske was mad he wasn't able to get away with murder?

"Tom, you need to stop, you're freaking out right now."

"I just cannot believe that guy. I knew he was an asshole, a rich bastard, a spoiled brat, but the fact that he would go after you because you did your job as a police officer? He really does think he runs the world and the rest of us are just pawns in his little game of life!"

"Tom, I'm just as angry as you are, but aside from a busted lip I'm fine!"

"You dislocated your shoulder, Carrie, you could have died tonight because Penske didn't get his way! I don't know what I'd do without you as my partner, I am not as good of a cop by myself. We're a team, and my team was almost torn to shreds because an overgrown baby didn't get its bottle! Penske is so much more dangerous than we banked on, Carrie."

"Please don't yell, I still have a headache."

"You need to go home and lie down— but don't fall asleep. Just sit up in bed, or have a bath, but not too hot⁠—"

Carrie cut him off by wrapping her good arm around his waist, and Tom pulled her into an embrace. The duo just stood there, silently holding each other for a few moments.

"Carrie, I swear, I won't let him get away with this. I won't let him try and hurt anyone else, I'll start my day at the courthouse with the warrant and bring him in before the sun goes down, I promise."

"That's very poetic, Tom, I didn't know you had it in you," Carrie said.

They held on to each other, enjoying the embrace for just a little while longer before they had to go back to just being partners.

TWENTY-EIGHT

CARRIE

“Carrie, just relax! I've got the warrants for Penske and I'm headed down with the team. Spade is coming with us to lead the B team; we'll have SWAT backup if we need," Tom said over the phone.

"I'm not worried about you, you idiot! I wanna be there to take down Penske myself!" Carrie was frustrated and taking it out on Tom. It wasn't his fault; she knew this was because Penske had tried to run her off the road — but that just made Carrie angrier. She wanted the satisfaction of cuffing the guy who thought he could get rid of her so easily by running her off the road on her own turf!

Carrie could hear Tom wince over the phone. "You can watch the bodycam footage after!" he encouraged her, weakly. "It'll be like you were there!"

Carrie was having none of Tom's positivity. Carrie was icing her swollen lip and resting her dislocated shoulder, while Tom got all the glory of securing and undertaking the warrant to search Penske's home and office. Carrie had never been so unreasonably angry with Tom. She tried bargaining with him and Culbertson over the phone.

"I can go to the DA's office and wait for the warrant," she offered.

"Elway can do that, you've done enough," Culbertson said.

"At least let me watch from the security van," Carrie pleaded.

Culbertson paused, for a second Carrie though she might get her way. "No, Blake, I can't in good conscious let you do that."

So Carrie waited at home, receiving updates from Tom. It was not the same.

When the detectives informed ADA Rachel Winters about what happened to Carrie and their current updates on the case, she sprang into action faster than any DA or ADA in the history of Carrie Blake's time on the NYPD. Not only did she petition the judge for an expedited warrant for a search on Matt Penske's home and office, but she negotiated a warrant for his arrest on the condition that he resisted, acted erratically, or attempted to remotely attack the team. Any aggression from Penske would sink his case, as he had proven that his mo was simple — absolutely no one says no to Penske.

Until now.

Carrie decided to take one last shot at it. She figured it would be harder to say no to her if she was already at the precinct, right? She showed up at the precinct, head still throbbing from her accident, with her gun arm in a sling.

"I'm ready to go. I can do this!" she said, trying to convince Tom and Culbertson that she was the picture of health. "Did you change the lights in here or something?"

"What?" Culbertson asked.

"Why are the lights in here so bright, you need sunglasses to sit at your desk!" Carrie was wincing, trying to keep her eyes open. Unfortunately for her, no one seemed to agree that the lights were way brighter than usual.

"Blake you probably have a concussion, you can't hold a gun with your arm in a sling, and I can barely understand what you're saying through that lip of yours. Go home and stay there — that's an order. Don't make me post a uniform outside your door. Elway will oversee this one, Spade will head up the B team, and that is final," Culbertson said, pointing at the door.

"Sir, I know you don't think much of me, but I need to be there. This guy tried to run me off the road, for Pete's sake! I can't show him he can just take me down that easily!" Carrie protested.

"You're showing him that by being alive, not wrapped around a tree on a New York State highway. Go home, before I need to assign a uniform to escort you and stand outside your door," he said, pointing at the door.

Carrie looked around her at the officers suiting up and tried not to cry or throw a temper tantrum to rival their suspect. She walked to the elevator and Culbertson followed.

"Blake, I need you to know something," Culbertson stopped Carrie at the elevator and she turned to him, "you are the best detective in this precinct. I know it, so do you, so does everyone who meets you. That's why I need you to go home, get some rest, and heal yourself so we can have you back in one piece for the next Penske. There's a reason he tried to run you off the road and not Elway."

"Hey!" Tom called. "Unfair!"

Culbertson ignored him and continued, "The sooner you're recovered, the sooner you'll be back chasing the next psycho terrorizing this town." Culbertson patted Carrie on her good shoulder and ushered her into the elevator.

It felt nice to hear that from Culbertson, even nicer that he said it without sounding shocked. Being a woman in the department just meant that she was often overlooked, or people assumed Tom was the brains behind every operation, and not being part of Penske's takedown could just add fuel to the misogynistic fire that plagued the department. She knew Tom had her back, but it was good to hear Culbertson did too — without being shocked that she could surpass the other guys in the office.

Carrie watched Tom suit up as the elevator doors closed. He gave her a salute and she weakly returned the gesture. As soon as the doors shut, she closed her eyes and leaned her tired body on the wall. Her disappointment was slowly clouded over by her exhaustion. When she got out of the elevator she called Carl and asked him to take her home.

"I've got you healthy snacks, a green juice, water, cozy blanket — anything else you need? Are you feeling okay? Can I get you another ibuprofen? You're only allowed ibuprofen and acetaminophen, no opioids, you got that? That's just a slippery slope to worse trouble that you need," Carl said fluffing up another pillow and putting it behind Carrie on her couch.

"I'm good."

"Are you sure you'll be okay alone?" he asked.

"I'm fine, Carl! I'm just fine. I mean, I have a headache, and my shoulder is absolutely killing me. It's more swollen than I've ever seen it before, and I definitely can't use my gun arm. But other than all that, I'm fine." Carrie didn't mean to snap at her brother, but she hated being fussed over like this. She could take care of herself. It wasn't as if she was unable to walk over to the kitchen for some water.

Carl laughed. "Yeah, you sound just fine." He looked down at his sister wrapped in blankets, trying to reach her phone with her good arm.

"That's not what I needed to hear, Carl."

"I'm sorry. I've been there, and now I'm watching what I used to look like, and it's truly ridiculous. Listen, you were run off the road last night. What your Chief said is right, you're lucky to not be wrapped around a tree right now."

Carrie hated it when her brother was right.

"I'm gonna get out of here and back to work. Call me if you need anything alright?" he said.

"Sure. Hey, before you go, can you close the window? The kids downstairs are yelling about something and it's making my head sore again."

"Of course." Carl walked over and closed the window. "Remember, I'm just a phone call away."

"Ugh, please Carl, just go!" Carrie threw a pillow at him.

Carl put his hands up in surrender as he left her apartment. It was quiet with him gone. Carrie looked at her phone, hoping for an update from Tom, but there were no notifications. She tried to turn on the tv and stream the latest reality show, but the noise from the tv was too much for her.

Carrie decided it was best to take a nap and forget about her day. She lay back and tried to forget about the sound of the neighborhood kids yelling — probably a lost baseball or something.

Penske

That morning, Matt Penske sat down at his computer to check on Carrie. He had a couple of phone calls from Andy that he never answered — the idiot knew he wasn't supposed to call him at the end of it all. But that many phone calls concerned Penske, he wanted to make sure everything had gone according to plan.

He opened up his personal Net Guardian Admin account and saw that Carrie's phone was still in use. Her phone's signal was pinging as 'on' and somewhere in Manhattan. Was it possible that Andy didn't take care of her, as Penske had asked? If anything, her phone should be pinging its signal in a hospital, or a junk yard. He double checked her Net Guardian credentials but it looked like she had thoroughly deleted her account — no doubt she got advice from that punk Trace Stuart about how to securely delete her information. Penske was regretting sending the cops his way more and more every day.

No matter, her phone seemed to be at home. It would be easy to check in on her with the Hummingbird. Either she was at home in a vulnerable state, or her phone was abandoned but turned on. Once he knew for sure, he could figure out what hospital she was at and keep tabs on her through their digital files. Hospitals kept everything online these days. Didn't they realize how easy it was for someone like him to access their patient's information? Especially after he 'generously' donated a fully equipped Net Guardian security system to all of New York's hospitals.

Penske opened up the virtual portal he set up for remote access to the Hummingbird drone and punched in Carrie's home address.

Carrie

"What are they yelling about?" Carl asked, it was the second time he called in the past half hour. He called first when he got in the car, just to make sure Carrie had everything before he drove off; and then again just now, to make sure she was still okay now that he was back at the FBI office.

"Who cares," Carrie said, slumping further down into her couch, "nothing matters now that I have to just sit at home while the case of a lifetime goes down without me," she pouted and her brother chuckled.

"You're so the youngest child. You know there will be other cases, and it's not like they're going to forget who investigated it."

"I know, but the arrest is the gratifying part! When you finally find the truth behind all the theories you've made about the case, the perp is in front of you after being this mysterious figure in your head for weeks — months, in this case. There's nothing quite like it."

"I don't know, Carrie, I think the gratifying part is the actual investigation. Putting the pieces together to come up with a picture of the crime. So much can go wrong with an arrest, and you don't even know if the perp is telling the whole truth. No way, it might be the part of an investigation where your adrenaline is highest but it's far from the best part."

Carrie was ready to continue their debate, but the voices outside got even louder, Carrie realized the kids' parents had joined the fray.

"What is going on out there?" she said to herself.

"Poke your head out and tell me! I want it to feel like I'm there!" Carl joked. "But we're not done with this little debate."

Carrie rolled her eyes and dragged herself out of bed, ready to yell at the crowd to keep it down.

"I think they're saying something about a helicopter?" she told her brother.

"What? Some kids in Manhattan have never seen a helicopter before? That's not possible, it must be something else."

"Who knows, maybe one of them has a drone," Carrie intoned, trying not to think about Penske. The screaming was getting louder as she puttered over to the window. She dragged the heavy window open and was about to poke her head out when suddenly a shining RT-100 Hummingbird rifle-mounted military drone dropped into view.

Carrie dropped to the ground below the window, hoping it hadn't yet seen her.

"What is it?" Carl asked.

"Carl, I have to go." Carrie immediately hung up the phone and dialed 911, but before the call could go through, the drone zoomed into her window splintering her window frame. The drone spun around in her living room, searching for its target. Carrie wasted no time leaping behind her couch, hoping it couldn't see her. They had no way of investigating the drone so she had no idea what kind of capabilities it had. Would it still be able to see her? Did the drone have a heat sensor, or some newly-developed x-ray vision? Carrie did not want to stick around to find out, she had to get out of there.

As the drone spun around her apartment, breaking everything in sight like a robotic Tasmanian devil, Carrie crawled to her hallway. She could see her sidearm on a table by the door, if she could just get to it, she might be able to shoot the military drone and gain some time to get away.

Just as she had that thought, the drone shot at her couch, sending up a cloud of foam and snacks. There wasn't time to plan her next move or question what the drone could or couldn't do. Carrie had to make a run for it, grab her sidearm, and get out of the apartment. She ran, staying as low as she could, zig-zagging through her tiny apartment in the hopes it would throw off whoever was controlling the drone.

"Dammit, Tom! What's taking you so long!" she screamed.

Lucky for Carrie, Penske was a poor shot when he was in a rage, and kept missing her by a couple of feet, instead hitting the walls of her apartment. Until today she really thought she might get her deposit back when she moved out of here, but Penske managed to throw a wrench in that plan too.

Carrie made it out, grabbing her sidearm and throwing herself through the door, slamming it behind her. The drone continued shooting at the door and Carrie didn't wait for it to try and break through. She ran downstairs, screaming at her neighbors to get out of the way. When she got outside, she saw the group of kids and their parents. The adults were holding their cellphones, trying to film what was going on, some of them were calling 911 —

"There's a flying robot! This isn't a prank call, I heard gunshots! It flew into an apartment and is shooting at somebody!" one of them was screaming, trying to convince the 911 operator that this wasn't a prank call.

Carrie wished she could stop and help her out, but she didn't want to put her neighbors in danger. She heard a scream and looked up to find the drone zipping out of her window.

"Run!" she yelled, and the crowd dispersed, some of them still filming the drone. They didn't stop until the drone started shooting at Carrie, its poor aim meant the cars nearby were the real victims in the fight. Carrie was doing her best to run out of range of other civilians, while aiming at the drone with her good arm. The drone was too high up, she didn't want to risk a stray bullet hitting a bystander. The best Carrie could do was to lead the drone somewhere it couldn't hit anyone.

Wherever Tom and the team were, and whatever they were doing, Carrie needed them to hurry up and arrest Penske — she was running out of time.

TWENTY-NINE

TOM

Tom watched the elevator doors close on Carrie, saluting her as they did. He had to admit, the search and arrest weren't going to be as sweet without Carrie at his side. They were a team — the brain and the clown — and now Tom was on his own.

"Ready, Elway?"

Right, he wasn't totally alone, he had Detective Spade with him.

Tom went downstairs to brief the search and arrest team on what they might find. "Penske doesn't seem dangerous, but he is prone to aggressive outbursts and potentially violent behavior. I need everyone to be on their guard when we go in. ADA Rachel Winters will be meeting us there with a warrant to search Penske's home and office, in case there are problems with his personal security team. We'll be separated into two teams — one to search his home and one to simultaneously search his office. Those of you going to the office will be with Detective Spade here, and the rest are coming with me to his home. I know this operation seems excessive, but we believe Matt Penske is a dangerous man, without remorse or care for others in the face of his own desires. We want this to be a clean sweep of his home, it's not a takedown. Ideally, his own legal team will be there to make sure he comes willingly but be careful. Take care of your team, let's get in and out and get what we need."

The team clapped for Tom's little speech, which made him feel weird about it. Carrie would have been way better.

"You're not going to war, Tom," he could hear her say, "they just need to be made aware of Penske's attitude, not his landmines." Tom shook his head to get Carrie out of his mind. He'd tell her all about it later, for now, he had to focus on what they needed. Penske likely had the RT-100 Hummingbird docked somewhere in his home, and the controls must be near there too.

The ride up to Penske's mansion was uneventful, but when Tom arrived he found Rachel Winters fighting with a team of lawyers, surrounded by very large security guards who all looked like Andy. Penske was like an evil villain with minions and everything. Tom hopped out of the car and joined Winters.

"What's going on here?"

"The legal team is fighting the legitimacy of the warrant," Winters said.

One of Penske's legal goons spoke up, "We have objections to the language that were not duly listened to in court. If DA Winters here had gone through the proper due process, perhaps we could have made this process simpler for you."

"You've got to be kidding me?" Tom said.

"I assure you, sir, I am not," the lawyer said.

"With all due respect, you were given far more allowances than anyone else would have during this entire due process and have stalled us at every possible turn," Winters countered, "if you had legitimate legal objections to this warrant — something more concrete than, my very wealthy client doesn't want to do it — the judge would have taken that into account. As such, no such legitimate objection exists, so please step out of the way and allow the police to do their job."

"Absolutely not," the legal goon said, "they can't come in, if they do, we will consider it to be trespassing and file court orders for each and every officer present here and at the Cybermart head office downtown."

At that, each of Penske's security team crossed their arms and stared down the officers. One of the uniformed officers ran up to Tom with a phone.

"Detective Elway, it looks like Detective Spade's team has run in to some difficulties at the office. They're challenging the warrant and saying it's trespassing if they come in. He's asking what he should do."

This was a job for Carrie, Tom didn't make great decisions under pressure. What would Carrie do in this situation? She'd keep a calm head and turn to procedure. Tom could do that, he also went to the police academy and while he didn't often follow procedure, he usually knew what it was.

Tom turned to the legal goon, "Refusing to allow access when we have a valid warrant for a search of your client's home is obstructing an investigation. Am I right, DA Winters?"

Rachel Winters was shocked this talk of policy was coming out of Tom and just nodded.

"Great," Tom continued, "then I'll direct my team to start making arrests." He turned around to the uniforms gathered behind them and nodded, each one approached one of the guards or lawyers and started reading them their Miranda Rights.

"Alright, fine!" the legal goon said, "Back off. There's no need to arrest anyone but be advised we will be keeping an eye on what goes on in there."

Tom waved the uniforms away, and the legal team cleared the way for the NYPD to enter the building. Rachel Winters got on the phone to direct Detective Spade to follow suit.

Penske

Penske sat in his office, sweating. He couldn't believe this chick, she kept dodging his drone. Every time it got a lock on her, she would duck or run out of the way, and the entire time she kept shooting at it. Penske screamed and slammed his fists down on the table so hard, he could see through the drone's camera that it almost crashed into a telephone pole. He wasn't being careful anymore, and he didn't care. What did it matter? He'd pay the fines and throw some cash at whoever's car was hit. He'd make the process so confusing that anyone who tried to get money off of him would end up losing money in the process. Penske laughed at the idea, with a renewed determination to kill Carrie Blake.

Tom

Tom searched through the house for Penske, suspicious that he wasn't outside with his lawyers trying to block the cops from coming inside. He stalked through the house, amazed that a Manhattan home could have this much space. A couple of times he would ask one of the uniformed officers if they'd seen him, but so far, no luck. Tom called Detective Spade,

"Spade here."

"It's Elway, you see him?"

"No, he doesn't seem to be here. Security says he hasn't shown up today — I figured he'd be at his house."

"I haven't found him. I'll put out an APB on him wherever he is, he's probably fuming right now."

"All right, if I hear anything on my end, I'll update you."

"Thanks."

Tom thought about the layouts of all these homes he had been visiting the last few months. They were all uniquely designed mazes, the kind of thing you had to live in to understand your way around, but they all had a couple of things in common. There was always an office with no windows, and there was usually a panic room. Tom closed his eyes and thought about the building — Penske's office couldn't be at the front or back of the building because it had large floor to ceiling windows. It wasn't on the ground floor, which was an open concept, and you could see straight into the back patio. Penske, at his heart, was a tech nerd, just like Trace Stuart.

Exactly like Trace Stuart.

Tom raced to the basement, unclipping his gun on the way.

Carrie

Carrie ran down an alleyway, she had to get out of the way of civilians as Penske's drone wasn't being as precise as it had been in the past. The drone swung down almost at eye level, skidding over cars and knocking people over.

The alleyway was a dead end. There was a fence, but it had barbed wire at the top of it. Carrie turned — the drone finally slowed down, aiming itself at Carrie.

Carrie closed her eyes, believing this might be her last moment before death.

Tom

"Don't move another inch," Tom said, pointing his gun directly at Penske's head. He'd found the basement office with a set-up that was almost exactly like Trace Stuart's. On the screen was the view of the drone, Carrie in its bullseye, and Penske had his finger over the keyboard ready to pull the trigger.

"I could just kill her, you know."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. You've already got three murders on your plate, and an assault charge. You'll never see the light of day again."

Penske just laughed. "You really think I don't have enough money to get away with murder?" His eyes were roving, he was like a supervillain controlling a hostage from his lair. "If my legal team is having a hard time, I can just hire another one. I can hire an entire firm if I want to, they'll bury the state in so much paperwork your grandkids will be called as witnesses."

Out of the corner of Tom's eye, he could see Carrie in the drone's camera. That woman never did back down.

"C'mon, Penske, I'm not worth your time. Neither is Carrie."

"You're right about that. I wasted my time calling you — I gave you Trace Stuart and you threw it away! If you wanted an arrest so badly, I handed you someone to arrest on a silver platter! What is wrong with you people? Don't you understand that power comes from above? All you had to do is follow directions then we could have avoided all this trouble, and maybe your partner wouldn't be⁠—"

There was the sound of a bang, and the camera's frame shook on Penske's monitor. Another

bang, and the screen looked like it had cracked. One more, and the entire screen turned to static.

"What the hell?" Penske roared. "What did she do! What did she do to the Hummingbird? I swear, you will pay for this! You will all pay for this!"

At that, two uniformed officers came in with handcuffs.

"Matt Penske, you're under arrest on charges of murder, attempted murder, and obstruction of justice, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…" This time, Tom was by the book, he'd never read a perp's Miranda Rights as accurately as that. Not that anyone heard him do it. Penske collapsed to the floor kicking and screaming like a toddler. It took four officers to drag him out of the house and into the squad car, and all the while he screamed that each one of them would pay, that Tom would pay, and that the NYPD would pay the most of them all.

Tom visited Carrie at home later that day. He was relieved to see she wasn't hurt by the whole ordeal, just spooked.

"If anything, this whole investigation has made me want to be even more offline than I already am," she said, only half-jokingly.

"I was really scared, when I saw you on his monitor I thought for sure that he⁠—"

Carrie cut him off, pulling him into a hug. Tom resisted at first, and then sunk into Carrie's good arm, relaxing his body for the first time in months.

"You seriously thought I couldn't shoot with my left?" Carrie finally said after they pulled away from each other.

Tom smiled and shook his head, pulling Carrie in for another hug.

A few days later, Tom, still riding high on the arrest and his celebration with Carrie, walked down a street in Brooklyn carrying a Mountain Dew.

He knocked on Trace's door, happily following the many steps required for entry. It was fine, Tom was here on his spare time, the sun was shining, and they'd solved the case. When Trace finally opened the door, Tom handed him the Mountain Dew, with a bow on top of it.

"What's this for?"

"It's a thank you gift, for helping us with the case," Tom said. "Penske's been arrested, and his drone is out of commission. We couldn't have done it without you."

Trace took the Mountain Dew and smiled. "This is great. So, I'm off the hook, no more visits from the Drone Duo?" he asked.

Drone Duo? Tom liked it; it had a nice ring to it.

"We'll still need you to testify as an expert witness. Once you do that, I think we'll overlook the use of an illegal encryption breaker, as well as the many inflammatory and parole-violating statements you've made online," he said, pointedly.

Trace nodded furiously. "Happy to help, as long as Penske is behind bars where he belongs, and the Net Guardian is shelved indefinitely."

After leaving Trace's apartment, Tom headed to Rikers to see his father.

"Sonny Elway!" the receptionist called.

Tom bounced up, ready for his last stop on the victory tour. He couldn't remember the last time he was this happy to see his dad. He walked over to the visiting booth, picked up the phone and told him the good news.

"I knew Trace Stuart wasn't your guy. That's why I joshed you around so much when you came in here, asking if he was violent. I knew you'd find your way — then again, it's helpful that you had your old man to guide you down the right path." Sonny winked.

"Are you ready for your transfer?"

"As ready as I'll every be. In a way, I will miss this dingy old place — but not enough to come back and visit, you know what I mean?"

Their conversation continued without any incident. Carrie was helping Tom learn a little more patience, and his visits with his father felt less strained and more familial as a result. He hated to admit it, but there was a small part of him that had to thank Penske for bringing them back together — albeit in a very unconventional way.

Later that evening, Tom appeared at Carrie's door with flowers and some ointment for her sore shoulder.

"Are you done with your victory laps?" she asked.

"Not quite," Tom said, as he wrapped her in his arms and gave her another hug. "We need to have a beer!"

Carrie laughed and let him in.

EPILOGUE

CARRIE

“They're calling it the trial of the century," Culbertson said, putting the newspaper down on his desk between them. " I want to congratulate the two of you. I had hoped, Carrie, that you'd rub off on Tom, and it looks like I was right. You've been a good influence on him."

"Thank you, sir," Carrie said, trying to ignore Tom's smile out the corner of her eyes.

It had been a few months since they'd arrested Matt Penske for the highly publicized Net Guardian murders. Body-cam footage of Penske's arrest had gone viral on social media, tarnishing his image as a tech innovator and business genius. If that wasn't enough, he had gone on long rants any time a reporter got near him, calling for Carrie and Tom to be arrested for not following the will of "true power" — aka, Penske's billion dollar empire. Memes spread depicting Penske as an overgrown toddler swimming in pools of money, and both the arrest and Penske's ensuing erratic behavior had been parodied on various late-night comedy shows. His legal team and publicist had finally got a leash on him, but the damage was done. It would be a long time before Penske would be taken seriously again. For now, he was like an evil Bond villain come to life.

Trace Stuart's article in the hacker zine, Neo, describing the many dangers of the Net Guardian system went viral too after being picked up by various major newspapers across the country. He was becoming a popular voice in the world of security reform as well as social change in the tech industries. When Carrie and Tom checked in with him, he claimed he didn't have much time left these days for his old anarchistic ways, though the detectives noticed the body-cam footage appeared online only one day after they told Trace Stuart about it. They decided, for this one time, to turn a blind eye and allow the video's release to remain a mystery. Their friendship with Trace was an unexpected benefit of the investigation, he helped Tom see a new side of Sonny Elway, and was educating Carrie on how to securely use her computer, finally.

Carrie and Tom watched from Carrie's couch as the media storm battered Matt Penske's public image, personal life, and business one after the other. Net Guardian was fully recalled, and Cybermart had to pay out massive refunds to all Net Guardian customers, as well as delete all of their private information from their servers. The FBI got involved to ensure the offshore servers had been wiped clean, and Cybermart was being investigated by the SEC for potential fraud charges related to their claims that information was deleted and not stored on their servers without the owner's permission.

Cybermart's stock had tanked, and their profits plummeted after the hashtag, #PenskeNeedsATimeOut started trending, and their customers boycotted the online store. At his arraignment Penske tried to argue that he was too important a figure to remain behind bars while awaiting trial, and if it hadn't been for his outburst when the judge asked ADA Winters for her suggestion, he probably would have been free. A video of the court proceedings had started to spread but didn't go viral like the body cam footage. Penske could be seen rolling his eyes and asking the judge how much it would cost him to stay out of jail.

"Excuse me, sir?" the judge asked in the video.

"I said, how much is it gonna cost me? How much do I have to pay you for you to understand I am not going to jail," Penske answered. He was sent to jail without the possibility of bail, with a charges of contempt and attempt to bribe a judge tacked on to the end of his crimes.

Carrie heard from ADA Winters that despite the business failings, Penske's legal team was doing everything they could to keep a tight hold on the proceedings.

"They poke holes or stall whenever they can. They weren't lying when they said they'd do everything they could to bury us in paperwork. Luckily, the judge assigned to our case is a hard-ass who is notorious for hating these billionaire legal teams," she said when she updated Carrie.

What Trace had told them months previous was true — it was unfathomable to understand how much a billion dollars was. Penske could afford his lawyers salaries ten times over, they would be working round the clock for him during the whole trial process, and if they could manage to keep Penske's mouth shut they'd probably get him off the hook too.

Carrie didn't wish bad things on Penske, or anyone for that matter — it was a waste of her precious time and brain power, Carl had taught her — but she did have to admit it was satisfying to watch Penske's castle crumble. Every piece of bad news for him brought a slight smile to Carrie's face. He had tried to kill her, after all, for no reason other than she was an intelligent cop who wouldn't let him get away with his petty murderous games.

One night, Carrie and Tom were sitting in their favorite pub watching some entertainment news show report on Penske's trophy wife divorcing him with a hefty settlement and taking full custody of their kid, when Carrie decided it was time for her to close the book on Penske.

"I'm going to go see him. I need the closure," she explained to Tom when he protested against her visiting Penske in jail. "He tried to kill me and I never really got to face him."

Since the day Penske chased her down the street with his military drone, Carrie had been regularly seeing a therapist. Her worries that she would end up like her brother drove her to seek out her own psychological help, and she took leave for a month or two after the arrests. It felt good to talk to someone who wasn't her family or Tom about her job. Until then, Carrie hadn't appreciated how much she bottled up inside her. Carrie and her therapist had been discussing whether or not she would like to visit Penske for the past few weeks and watching the news of his wife celebrating her new life out from under Penske's thumb inspired Carrie to do the same.

"But—" Tom started.

"It's time," she said, interrupting him.

A few days later, after convincing Tom she didn't need him to check up on her so often, Carrie went up to Rikers Island, where Penske was temporarily jailed.

She didn't make an appointment, and used a different name when she signed in. Penske still had his diehard fans who were all convinced the murder case was a trumped-up conspiracy charge, and they had been donating to his legal fund in support. Carrie wasn't sure where the money was going, but she was sure Penske didn't need the $10-20 donations streaming in.

ADA Winters had been tipped off and brought it up to the judge, who was trying to decide whether or not it was considered fraud to take money from his fans when he had more money than all of them put together.

But that was a problem for another day. Today Carrie was going to face the man who decided her life was too inconvenient for him. When her name was called, Carrie walked into the visitors room and sat down in front of a booth with a phone. A door buzzed and Penske was led in by a guard who he contemptuously shrugged off when he got into the room. Penske was looking horrible. He had lost weight, his hair was thinner, and he did not look very good with a beard. Any questions about whether or not he had cosmetic fillers injected were answered by the fact that his lips and cheeks looked deflated, and the wrinkles by his eyes had started to deepen.

His lips curled up like he had smelled rotting garbage when he laid eyes on Carrie. She picked up her phone and nodded at him to do the same. He snatched the phone from the wall.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I wanted to look you in the eye. The coward who wouldn't even kill me in person," she said, calmly.

"I should've used the drone on the highway, you'd be in the Long Island Sound by now. That goes to show what happens when you rely on others to do your dirty work."

Carrie ignored the gross misunderstanding of Long Island geography and continued, "I don't understand. You didn't have to try and kill me, so why?"

"Why? Why? You were in the way, that's why. That's the problem with women, you never listen. My wife was the same, always second-guessing, always asking for another opinion. Why do you need to constantly investigate every little thing? No one says no to me, you understand? No one!" he yelled, causing the guard to take a cautious step forward. Carrie waved him away, she would be fine even if there wasn't glass between them. There was nothing Penske could say to hurt her now.

"You can't handle a woman saying no to you?"

"No one says no to Penske," he growled, "if you idiot cops had just done what I told you none of this would have happened. Now look at what you've done! My company which was going to innovate the future is ruined, there are freakin' idiots running all over the place completely ruining my vision!"

"Actually, your company seems to be doing pretty well without you."

Cybermart's board of directors had recently voted unanimously to remove Penske from the company and the guy being tapped to take over was the leader of their research team who was committed to creating security solutions that were actually secure and had also cancelled the company's military contract citing they invited corruptible technology.

"Everything I invented is going to be in ruins by the time I'm out of here. Those idiots have no idea what they're doing, those contracts were essential to my inventions. And you know what my first order of business is going to be? I'm going to sue you. I am going to personally sue you for defamation and you'll never see the inside of a precinct again. You'll be lucky if you can get a job waiting tables at that stupid cafe you're always going to."

Carrie was taken aback. She had never been aware of just how thorough Penske was when he was stalking her. He caught her surprise and a smile spread across his face.

"Oh you didn't realize that, did you? I knew your every single move, I tracked you for days. How do you think I knew exactly which of those shitty tenement windows to burst through? I watched you, and no one noticed because no one cares! No one bothers to look up above them, that's why people like me can do what they want. You think by throwing me in jail you've stopped us all? I'm just the tip of the iceberg, Missy. I can invent when I'm in here too."

"You never invented anything, Penske, let's get that straight. I just came to tell you that I'm not wasting my time on nightmares anymore."

"Your nightmares? What do I care about your nightmares? You've caused me to live in a nightmare. My company is going to be run into the ground because of you! It was all you! That stupid partner of yours would have done what I wanted, but oh no, little Miss Carrie Blake has to go by the book and follow the rules. Please, as if I care about your nightmares. I'm still your nightmare, kiddo. If that stupid partner of yours had been alone this would have ended and that good for nothing, smarmy, holier-than-thou geek would be in jail just like he should be. I have the money to get out of here, you know. Do you know how much a billion dollars is? I could build you a house with my money and burn it down with you inside and no one would care because I have followers, I have people who love me, and when I get out it's over for you! You know what happened to the last woman who rejected me? I killed her — Teresa Walden also thought she was too good for me, but I showed her, didn't I? Well, maybe I missed a couple of times because your little work-husband distracted me, but that doesn't mean I can't come back for you!"

Carrie couldn't help but smile.

"Matt, don't forget, this visit is being monitored," Carrie said, pointing up to the security cameras, "and everything you say is being recorded."

Matt Penske looked back at the security cameras, the guards, and the other inmates around him. His face got redder and redder until finally, he exploded, and ripped the phone out of the wall. With that, four guards descended on Penske to remove him from the visitors room. He screamed, kicked, cried, and kept telling Carrie that she would pay.

After her visit, Carrie walked into Café Milo to see her brother and Tom waiting for her with a coffee and slice of cake.

"How'd it go?" Carl asked.

"As well as I expected," Carrie replied.

Carl grinned. "Glad to hear that."

"What did he say?" Tom asked.

"Exactly what you'd expect. That I'm a powerless, idiot, loser and once he's out of there I'll pay for what I said and what I did. He thinks Cybermart is going to go under because he isn't at the helm — I feel bad for his cellmate on the day he realizes the military contracts have been cancelled," Carrie said, digging into her cake. "A petulant man who has a problem with women. What else is new? Oh, and he threw out that he could kill me and nobody would care."

"Did he forget that the prison was listening?" Carl asked.

"Apparently. Took several guards to get him out of the visitor's room." Carrie smiled.

The trio ate silently for a while because even though Penske was an overgrown child, he still had enough money to throw at the legal system to bend it to his will.

Tom put down his fork for a moment, looking around him at the humble café. "Trace was right about the most important thing," he said, "Money and power are corruptible."

Carrie and Carl shared a look — Tom had been reading Neo a lot lately. "I'm serious, what Trace said about the ultra-wealthy creating their own bubble within our world, one where they only had to hold each other to account, is kind of true. If it wasn't for Penske's outbursts, we may never have been able to hold him, and he certainly never would have experienced the backlash he has since his arrest."

"Tom, that's a direct quote from Trace's last article," Carrie pointed out. "You're right, though. Even with all the evidence against him, Rachel still thinks they're going to have a hard time bringing him to justice."

"And despite the fact that he's a verifiable villainous psycho, he still has fans," Carl added, "fans who are willing to finance him even though he doesn't need it."

The Net Guardian Killer had changed so much in their perspectives and relationships to each other — yet the world at large was still pretty much the same. Penske was gone, but Cybermart would recover and keep generating insane profits for their top brass, and while a lot of people boycotted them for a while, a lot more went back to the ultra-convenient service pretty quickly. It would take a lot more than one corrupted billionaire to change the society they lived in.

"Did you take some of my cake?" Carrie broke the silence, comparing her slice to Tom's.

"No," he said, his mouth full.

"We're literally having a philosophical discussion about the rich getting richer on the backs of the poor, and in the meantime you are taking bites of my slice of cake?"

Tom swallowed. "What kind of evidence do you have of that?" he asked.

Carrie reached over and swiped her finger over the corner of his mouth where a bit of icing had stuck and then licked her finger.

"Hmm, tastes like money," she snarked and the three of them burst out laughing.

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Enjoy this short preview of my book Don’t Open The Door…

DON’T OPEN THE DOOR

Be careful when you open the door to strangers...

Successful, happily married former military contractor Samson Chase is spending his time alone while his wife Teresa is on a business trip enjoying beer, takeout, and terrible movies while he works on his latest psychological horror novel.

But things take an unexpected turn when a knock on the door brings two beautiful young women to his doorstep, claiming to be stranded after a double date gone wrong.

He lets them in to use his phone...not realizing that he’s just made a terrible mistake.

Samson wakes up with no memory of the night before and into a nightmare. Not only have the women destroyed his house and stolen from him, but they blackmail him with a video of an inappropriate encounter he can’t even remember.

Months later, abandoned by his furious wife, on the hook for the house repairs, and in trouble with his publisher, he is back on his feet and ready to seek his revenge. The two girls have made two mistakes: targeting a man of his talents, and stealing a phone with a tracker in it.

It’s time for some payback...and nobody is more creative at revenge than a man who scares people for a living, and has absolutely nothing left to lose.

Don't Open The Door – the gripping psychological thriller perfect for fans of Freida McFadden, Daniel Hurst, and K L Slater.

Buy Don’t Open The Door on Amazon today!

Or read the next page…

ONE

Marc stood over the body of a monster he’d just killed, needing to make sure it was actually dead. He was panting like crazy, like he’d just run a marathon.

Aside from the sound his respiratory system was making, there was a distinct dripping noise. Small droplets of blood traveled down his bloodied hand, down his blood-drenched blade, and fell to the ground. The melodic sounds they made were almost soothing, almost beautiful.

Also, the sound was definitely in the dichotomy of the carnage that happened inside this abandoned house. Or was it?

Marc had no idea it took such a great effort to hack another man to death. He’d killed many times before; however, that was with a gun. The knife was a completely different story.

It felt more personal in a way, not to mention exhausting. His knife kept hitting bones, sticking into all the obstacles, and he had to use great strength to pull it out, to finish the job the way he wanted to.

Nevertheless, it was exhilarating to do it the old-fashioned way. Marc felt alive like never before. He was aware of his surroundings; all of the smells, sounds, and small flutterings in the air, like never before. With this small action, he felt transformed; reborn.

In other words, he liked it this way much better and couldn’t wait to get hold of a better knife for the next time. Because there would definitely be a next time. He needed to feel this again, this rush, and soon.

“Samson?”

His wife’s voice snapped him back to reality. He was so engrossed in writing about his protagonist that he’d completely spaced out and forgotten where he was.

Samson was sitting in his office, like always, writing on his computer, like always. He was not in a dark, stinky, rotting crackhouse following his favorite monster. And according to the New York Times bestsellers list, America’s favorite monster as well.

It was important to be reminded of such stuff every once in a while. Of his whereabouts, not that Americans had a strange taste in literature. He almost chuckled at his bad joke.

Samson looked at the number of words he has just written. Not bad. Still, he was irked at the interruption. Marc was about to experience the surprise of his life when a true monster entered the game. It amused him to write about hunters becoming the hunted.

“Samson?” Teresa repeated impatiently.

With a sigh, he stood and followed the sound of her voice. She was in the bedroom, and he leaned against the door frame, taking in her frantic behavior. “Yeah?” He had to clear his throat. It had been a while since he’d uttered a word. It wasn’t because they were in a fight or something – far from it – it was just because he had been writing all morning while she did this.

“Have you seen my blue sweatshirt?” she looked up long enough to ask before returning to her task. Their bed looked like she had dumped the entire content of their closet onto it.

There was a good chance she had actually done that. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. What was the question again? Sweatshirt. “No, I haven’t.”

“Could you check the laundry basket?”

It would not be prudent of him to point out how she was closer to the bathroom than he was, so he only said, “Sure.”

Teresa looked stressed enough, like she always did as she packed for a trip. Being a real estate broker, she traveled for seminars a couple of times a year. That didn’t mean it got easier over time.

She had the urge to pack the entire house just in case, never knowing what she might need while she was away.

He had tried explaining to her multiple times she didn’t need any of those things, but it was in vain. She was simply stuck in her ways, feeling more comfortable like that, in peace, as though in control, and he had learned to let it be. Because he loved her, craziness and all.

“It’s not in here,” he reported dutifully. “Maybe it’s in the laundry room.”

He already knew she would send him there next and started walking on his own.

Usually, Samson would accompany her on these trips to act as a voice of reason, but this time, he had to stay home and write. His deadline was approaching, and that made him nervous since he was nowhere near finished. Like all writers, he had good and bad days. Lately, he felt like all of them were bad.

To make matters worse, Teresa wasn’t traveling for business, she was going to visit her parents, and Samson was genuinely sorry he would miss that. He wasn’t one of those people who hated their in-laws. Mike and Jenny were great people, and they treated him like a son, which he appreciated greatly, being an orphan and all.

At the same time, it would be nice to have the house to himself.

Oh, the fun I’ll have. It would be true Netflix and chill in its literal meaning. He would watch all the movies he wanted and chill all by himself. He chuckled at his own joke.

“Is it there?” Teresa yelled from the bedroom.

For a moment, he’d forgotten what he was doing. He was sent on an important mission of finding one of his wife’s sweatshirts that she liked to wear around the house. It was too old and mangy to serve any other purpose.

“It’s not,” he yelled back, returning upstairs. He could hear her curse.

Why would she need that old thing in the first place? He dared not ask. Eight years of marriage taught him it was better to stay ignorant regarding certain things. He returned to his previous position by the door, not daring to enter while she packed.

“Take one of mine,” he offered.

“They’re too big on me,” she stressed in return, folding a third or fourth pair of almost identical-looking jeans and putting them in the suitcase.

She was on the petite side, and he was tall and lean, but he didn’t see a problem. It wasn’t like she was going on a business trip and needed to look her sharpest. She was visiting her mom and dad, and he was sure they didn’t care what she looked like as long as she was healthy and happy.

At the same time, Samson knew Teresa cared what she looked like and needed to have appropriate outfits for all scenarios, which apparently included an old sweatshirt, and that was why he remained quiet and let her deal with this on her own.

She eventually found several substitutes, but he could see that she wasn’t completely satisfied with any of them. So logically, she decided to pack them all.

Samson could only stare at his wife and shake his head when she wasn’t looking.

Deciding to let her be until she needed him again, Samson returned to his office and started editing the section he’d written that morning. It didn’t take him long to once again completely forget about everything else and practically become Marc on his killing spree anew.

A couple of hours later – or mere minutes, Samson couldn’t tell for sure – his wife demanded his attention once again. She always interrupted him while he wrote, and that bothered him at times. It felt like she had no concept of the importance of what he was doing. To her, his writing was merely a hobby. The fact they were living quite well thanks to his hobby because millions of people bought his books never seemed to cross her mind.

“Samson, it’s time for you to drive me to the airport,” she yelled from someplace in the house. It was good they had such great acoustics.

Most of the time.

“Coming,” he replied, making sure he saved his manuscript. It was tragic how many times he’d forgotten and learned to be more mindful the hard way.

This time, he wasn’t annoyed by the interruption. He was fairly satisfied with the section he’d managed to write. Besides, he was the one who insisted on driving instead of her taking a taxi. It would be good to spend some extra time with her before his week-long solitude.

“Hurry up,” she prompted. “I don’t want to miss my flight.”

It was rather ironic that she would blame him for her tardiness and not herself since she had an almost a chronic inability to pack like a normal person. Samson felt like he would sprain all his muscles while picking up the oversized suitcase she’d chosen for the trip. Of course, she had another, slightly smaller bag that she carried.

“Are you one hundred percent sure you packed everything?” he asked her as he dragged the huge, heavy, suitcase downstairs. The thing was heavy like a motherfucker, and he envisioned taking a week to nurse himself back to health.

Cut the crap, you’re not that old.

Joking aside, if he didn’t know his wife, he would suspect she was smuggling a hacked-up dead body in that thing. Stuffed with some rocks, was implied.

Seeing her worried expression, he realized too late what a mistake he’d made. You stupid idiot.

“I’m sure there are perfectly stocked stores in Pasadena, too, if you forgot something,” he added in reassurance.

“You’re right,” she said offering a small smile as he sighed with relief.

Dodged that bullet. Teresa would most definitely miss her flight if she tried to open this monstrosity to make sure she had all the things with her that she would not need.

They were at the front door when Teresa dumped everything in her arms onto the floor and rushed back inside, running up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. She’d forgotten something.

He tried so hard not to laugh every time he saw her running. Even he, who was supposed to be a writer, would have difficulty explaining what was happening with her legs in those moments. For some reason, from behind, it looked like she was making circles. It was strange that she didn’t take flight at some point. Not to mention it was a miracle she wasn’t constantly kicking herself in the ass. It was funny as hell yet endearing. She looked like a little girl in those moments and not a grown woman.

Teresa reappeared half a minute later, carrying her toothbrush.

“You could have just bought another one,” he couldn’t help teasing.

“Not like this one,” she replied instantly, raising her nose ever so slightly. It was obvious that simply going to the store had never crossed her mind.

Teresa always had trouble admitting when she was wrong. Some would call that prideful, but Samson considered that one of his wife’s many charms. Charms, by his definition, were all the quirks of a person, good or bad. Besides, her charms made teasing her that much more enjoyable.

“Ready?” he asked, preparing to lock the door. He really felt like he’d strained a muscle dragging the suitcase to the car. I’m getting old.

“Yes, and please hurry,” she prompted. “I don’t want to have to run across the airport to catch my flight.”

He tried picturing that. There was no way she could run with the bags she had, but the image almost made him smile. Checking the time, he reassured her that something like that wouldn’t happen. Even if they got stuck in traffic, she would still have plenty of time to spare at the airport, just the way she liked it.

Fifteen minutes later, he was cursing himself to hell and back for having that unfortunate thought because they were stuck in traffic.

Damn it.

“I really wish you’d taken a different way.”

Samson gave his wife a look, because as far as he was concerned, the only direct route from their place to the airport was the airline, and the last time he checked, their car hadn’t come with a pair of propellers to turn it into a helicopter. This was the only route.

He didn’t feel like arguing, so he remained quiet. They sat in silence for the next couple of minutes. Teresa didn’t care for listening to music, so he indulged her.

“Oh, come on. Move, you idiot,” Samson burst out all of a sudden, startling his wife a little as he honked at the driver in front of him who was too busy texting to realize that the line had moved forward.

The line of cars in front of them looked like it went on forever. Although Teresa didn’t say a word, he knew she blamed him as though she expected him to have some kind of a superpower to would help them avoid it. Her behavior irked him to no end.

It didn’t take long for another moron to raise his blood pressure even further. “What the fuck are you doing?” Samson raged, using his horn profusely as another asshole tried to cut in front of him.

“Samson, calm down,” Teresa snapped.

“Did you see what he did?” he yelled. “I could have hit him!” It would have been his fault for the crash and not that dipshit’s, and he would be responsible for the damages.

“But you didn’t,” Teresa pointed out, as though that made all the difference in the world.

He couldn’t believe that she was this calm about this whole situation. That was because she wasn’t driving. If she were in the driver’s seat and had almost hit that car, she’d be livid, too.

Samson wanted to get out of the car, drag the other man from his – preferably through a cracked window – and beat him to a pulp. Maybe that would instill some manners into him, and he would think twice next time before trying to cut in line.

“You’re doing it again,” Teresa’s voice broke him from his reverie. “Calm down.”

He was prepared to snap at her again and demand to know what she meant by that, but his jaw was clenched so tightly that he wasn’t able to. He was also squeezing the wheel so hard his hands ached, so it was pretty self-explanatory what she meant.

It took everything in him to calm down enough to loosen his grip and relax his jaw. He was really losing it. The blind rage he experienced lately scared the shit out of him; not that he would ever admit it.

He was a man. It was perfectly normal to get angry. It was all the testosterone in him, causing havoc.

Just keep telling yourself that, asshole.

“Honestly, Samson, you really should get over yourself already,” Teresa’s words put an end to his inner monologue.

“Excuse me?” he inquired, turning to look at her. He knew Teresa became frustrated with his condition quite often, but she had never talked to him like this before. She certainly had never used that tone of voice before.

“Years and years have passed since you were in the war. You need to move on. It’s not healthy.”

Samson could only gape in return. He didn’t know that PTSD had an expiration date and felt like thanking her for that piece of information.

It can have an expiration date if treated properly, he thought, then chastised himself immediately. He didn’t need his conscience teaming up with his wife against him.

“I’m trying,” he replied in a much calmer manner than he felt.

“I know, but it’s all in your head. If you could just adjust your attitude, I know you can move past it,” she encouraged. Teresa’s tone was now much softer, so Samson nodded.

“I know.”

Miraculously, the caravan of cars, trucks, and buses began to move forward again, sparing him from further discussion about his screwed-up head. After all that, he’d still managed to get his wife to the airport on time.

Teresa liked to be there a bit earlier, and she never expected him to linger with her, which he appreciated. If there was one thing he hated in this world, it was waiting for anything, anywhere.

The idea of having nothing to do but wait for his turn drove him insane, which said a lot about his personality when he thought about it. He was sure that his version of hell would be an endless line of people waiting for nothing, and never reaching their turn.

He banished that thought because it made his heart start to beat a little faster. That was some scary shit. He had to remember that for his next book.

Samson parked in front of the building. “Here you go, ma’am,” he announced in a strange accent, trying to imitate a chauffeur from one of her favorite movies.

“Thank you kindly,” she played along.

“That will be two passionate kisses and one big hug,” he deadpanned.

She adjusted her glasses, somewhat lost in thought. “I don’t know if I have that much with me.”

“That’s okay. I’m sure we can come to some kind of an arrangement.” He waggled his eyebrows, and she chuckled before they kissed.

“Please do something about this hair of yours while I’m away,” she said as they parted.

“Why? I thought you liked it shaggy.”

It had gotten longer than usual, but he kind of liked it.

“It does make you look younger.”

“Just what I’ve been going for.”

“Behave, while I’m away, okay?” she warned in a teasing tone.

He laughed at the inside joke. To anyone else, it might sound like she was warning him not to cheat on her, and that was by design. In reality, she was warning him not to make a mess out of the house because he was known for making extreme messes when left to his own devices. Not even the military had managed to cure him of that.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied dutifully, earning himself another kiss.

Afterward, he helped her with her suitcases.

“Hug Mom for me, okay?”

“Of course.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Samson waved goodbye as she went inside. She was strong for such a petite woman, he had to give her that.

He hopped back into the car. Freedom awaited him, and he had no clue what to do with it. He loved his wife and their marriage.

Many of Samson’s friends complained constantly about their wives and children, but he could say with utmost honesty that these eight years with Teresa were the happiest times of his life. Their marriage wasn’t a fairy tale; they had problems just like all other couples, but at the end of the day, this was it for him, what he aspired to achieve.

Before he’d met her, he had been in the war, patrolling deserts and fighting for his life. Killing insurgents was the only thing he knew how to do, and he was good at it. There was no room for love or happiness in those days. Samson had been constantly surrounded by death and destruction. He’d lost a lot of friends in that damn war.

So maybe he wasn’t the most reliable to judge such things. Who cared, as long as he was living his dream and was happy? And he was, despite the horrors he still carried with him.

Thank God he had Teresa. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, period. She evened him out.

He only wished she would be a little more understanding of his condition. He knew she loved him, and he knew she worried about him greatly, but at times she acted a bit callous.

She was impatient for him to get better. He was, too.

If he was being completely honest, he had gotten a lot better. He was a mess when he was discharged, but he’d learned to adapt to normal life over time and lost a lot of the triggers that plagued him.

An occasional nightmare or angry outburst could not be avoided, especially not while he was stuck in traffic with a bunch of idiots. All the same, it was getting pretty manageable, or so he believed. Teresa disagreed, of course.

He was triggered far less often than before. After the war, he was so trigger-happy that he got rid of his firearms, frightened he would end up harming someone, including himself.

Now when he got stuck in the traffic, he played his favorite music and sang loudly, and that helped a little.

“Move it, you asshole,” he boomed, honking. The music helped, but no one was perfect. Especially since there were idiots out there who understood nothing but a foot in their asses.

Samson drove home. Despite teasing his wife that he was going to throw a big party and invite the entire neighborhood, they both knew he would spend a quiet week at home, working and watching TV.

Maybe grab a beer with his best friend, Malcolm.

There was work to be done, and if anything helped with his PTSD, it was writing his novels. Through them, he managed to channel all the emotions, thoughts, and frustrations he wouldn’t know how to deal with otherwise. The fact that his publishing house and readers loved them to the point that he could make a living out of writing was a big bonus and a true blessing.

Come on Marc, let’s play.

TWO

Samson went to work very dutifully, with discipline and full attention. He was slightly concerned that he wouldn’t be able to meet the deadline his editor, Hunter, had set for him, so he didn’t want to waste time. Although he was sad that he’d missed the chance to spend time with his in-laws, it was more important to stay home and write.

Ah, the glamorous life of an author. He spent time alone in a stuffy room, describing life and all the intricate circumstances, twists, and turns he wasn’t getting to experience. The irony.

When he reached his word quota for the day, Samson decided it was time to eat. Standing up, he stretched, and that was followed by a lot of cracking noises. He loved what he did, but sitting down all the time was seriously fucking him up.

He’d been in constant movement, engaged, and mobile all his life, so all of this sitting-down crap was not for him. Alas, he was doomed to that until some genius invented a device that could convert his thoughts to paper without intermediaries.

In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and made a mental note that he would have to go shopping tomorrow. He couldn’t live solely on pizza for a week, although he was tempted to give it a try.

Not feeling particularly hungry, he made himself a quick sandwich and ate standing at the counter. That was one of the things he learned while being a soldier: Sleep wherever you can, for as long you can, and eat whatever you can, wherever you are.

Those habits hadn’t left him, although he struggled with the sleeping part. The nightmares had lessened, but they were still as brutal and soul-wrecking as the moment they first began. Usually, he dreamt about people he was forced to kill and people who were killed in return.

Samson had terrible nightmares about his time in Afghanistan. It was hard to watch his friends die in battle, blown to pieces by the makeshift bombs the terrorists liked to leave for them all over the abandoned cities.

He knew there were millions of ways to die on this earth but only a few were as torturous, monstrous, and sadistic as being blown to pieces.

The lucky ones would die instantly, but the rest... the rest could continue being for quite some time. And he intentionally chose that word – being, not living – because a pile of meat left behind wasn’t capable of anything else.

Forcefully, he cleared those images from his head. For him, lingering on them felt like inviting the nightmares to be more frequent. Samson needed something to do because the worst thing for him was to sit around and think about the past. That never ended well.

He didn’t feel like returning to work, figuring he’d earned some downtime. He knew his mind wasn’t a well of words that could dry out, but he didn’t want to take a chance. Especially not so close to his deadline.

Checking the time, he realized he had plenty of time before his workout session.

What to do?

Looking about as he finished the last bite of his sandwich, he knew exactly what he should be doing, and it wasn’t Netflix and chill. He would leave that for tonight.

His tornado of a wife had left quite a mess in her wake, and since she’d warned him to keep a clean house, he decided to tidy it up a little.

He started with the dishes, both because he loved her and was just a tad bit scared of her, especially when she was pissed off. She was tiny but feisty. Samson smiled. He already missed her. This house felt especially empty without her.

He washed and dried the dishes by hand, not daring to use the dishwasher without supervision. There were a lot of things that could go wrong, hundreds of ways he could screw up, and he wasn’t taking any chances.

Afterward, he folded all the discarded clothes neatly and returned them to the closet. He didn’t bother to dust or vacuum, reserving that for the last day before his wife returned. Until then, he had no problem breathing his own skin cells. He’d inhaled a lot worse while serving.

With that settled, he was pleased to see it was time for him to go to the gym. Grabbing his gym bag, he hopped in the car. It was kind of ironic that he had to use a car to go exercise, but the gym he liked was a long way from home, and if he jogged there, that would be his exercise for the day, and he preferred something more rounding than a running session.

Samson had never cared much about working out, but one of the requirements when he was a soldier was to be fit, and he continued doing it because he wanted to stay healthy. He always felt much better afterward, although during the training, especially when dealing with large weights, there were times he felt like a sadistic bastard for punishing his body in the first place.

There was another reason he was so keen on exercising as much as possible: It was a great way to deal with his anger.

“Hey, Samson,” a girl at the reception greeted him.

“Hey, Sam,” he greeted back.

“Hey, Samson,” another woman said in passing.

“Hey, Tina.” She was one of the regulars that preferred to do her workouts in the afternoons just like he did.

“I read that book you recommended,” Samantha said, offering him a locker key.

“What’d you think?” he asked, accepting it.

“It was amazing.”

“Glad you liked it.” He’d recognized early on that she was a fellow lover of the dark fantasy genre.

“Hey, Samson,” greeted another girl whose name he couldn’t recall.

“Hey.”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries with the receptionist, he started walking toward the locker room to change. On his way there, his trainer, Pete, met him.

“Hey, Samson,” he said in an overexcited way, in a high-pitched voice, mimicking the girls who’d greeted him. Pete was convinced that Samson could have any girl he wanted.

Happily married, he brushed it off easily, but it felt good on some level to hear it, anyway. He was pushing forty, and his deployments had left serious marks, physically and mentally.

So, it was good to know he still had it.

“Hey, Pete,” he greeted in the same manner he had all the rest.

“Ready to party?”

“Sure.”

Nodding, Pete went to prepare everything for them as Samson changed.

Although Samson would never act on anything, he had received a couple of invitations for drinks from regulars. He never told Teresa. He was faithful to his wife, but he was also no idiot. Some things did not need to be said.

He had turned all of them down, politely but firmly, making sure they understood he would never cheat on his wife. Perhaps it was a bit ironic considering his former occupation, but Samson refused to cross certain lines.

Kill a bunch of people is a-ok, but cheating is a big no-no.

Changing, he went to find his favorite trainer. And it was no surprise to find Pete flirting with some woman. He was young and single, so it was allowed. He told Samson he had this job specifically because he could do two things he loved most: Train and hook up.

That didn’t mean the kid was unprofessional. He abandoned his latest conquest the instant he spotted Samson, then grinned like a motherfucker. “Let’s get down to business.”

And he meant it.

Half an hour later, Samson had lost all the previous thoughts inside his head. There was only the here and now for him. The pushing, the pulling, the endless counting, and of course, the endless pain.

“Come on, old man, give me one more,” Pete encouraged in his usual manner.

Samson gritted his teeth, mustering all his remaining strength, and pushed his limit ... or what he believed was his limit. It always surprised him when he did more than was expected or required. Pete always knew he could, and that made him a great trainer, even at his young age.

“Perfect.” Pete accepted the weights from Samson as he tried to sit up straight. The last couple of pushes had almost killed him.

But you did them anyway.

His trainer threw a water bottle to him. Samson’s hands shook so badly, he barely managed to catch it.

“This was brutal,” he commented as he tried to catch his breath.

“You did great. I’m proud of you.”

Samson greedily drank the entire bottle of water although his trainer cautioned him to pace himself. He couldn’t.

“Ready for another set?” Pete asked him a minute later.

“You’re a funny guy,” Samson grumbled, which made the other man laugh out loud.

“You told me not to go easy on you,” Pete pointed out between the cackles.

He had, and that was a clear sign he’d suffered brain damage in Afghanistan.

“I didn’t think you would actually try to kill me,” Samson deadpanned. That was saying a lot, coming from a retired soldier.

“Come on, it’s time to do legs.”

“Great.” Samson followed behind him. Leg cramps would make him forget about the upper-body inferno he felt.

Another half an hour later, the torture known as exercise with a personal trainer finally ended. Pete was funny like that. He always insisted they stopped after an hour, saying how the body would simply get overtrained otherwise and how it wouldn’t produce desired results. Samson’s complaints that he only wanted to stay in good shape, not end up pumped like the Hulk fell on deaf ears. Pete had his own ideas, and that was that. Samson rolled with it.

A normal person would go straight to bed after that, but as was obvious, Samson wasn’t a normal person. Besides, this was his first night of freedom, and he wanted to celebrate it in some way.

He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he and Teresa had been apart. And he took that as a good sign that neither felt like running away from the other.

Time to party, he thought with slight amusement. His definition of a party had definitely changed over the years.

Returning home, he flopped onto the couch, deciding to relax for a bit. He had showered at the gym, and his hair still felt a little damp. Maybe I do need a haircut.

He fished his phone from his pocket and dialed Malcolm.

“Hey, Sam, what’s up?”

He was the only one who called him that, and Samson never minded.

“Hey, Malcolm. Teresa went to see her parents, so I’m home alone.”

“Home alone, you say? I hope you’re behaving,” the other man jibed.

“It’s disturbing how much you sound like her,” Samson lobbed in return. What it said about him – that his best friend and his wife shared so many similar traits – he wasn’t prepared to analyze. Ever.

“Thank you for saying that, asshole.”

“Want to grab a beer at the bar?” Samson offered.

Malcolm liked to visit a very specific bar since because it had flat screens on every wall on which all kinds of games were played nonstop. Malcolm was almost an addict when it came to sports. And it wasn’t limited to football: If it was played with a ball, chances were that Malcolm knew everything about it and loved it, not to mention knew all the players and their stats. He was like a savant.

“I can’t. We’re having a family night and playing board games. Wanna join?”

“Nah, I’ll pass.”

Malcolm chuckled. “Can’t say I blame you. We tend to get a bit competitive.”

That was putting it mildly.

“Some other night, then.”

“Sure,” his best friend agreed before disconnecting.

Samson took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. The house felt empty. He missed Teresa milling about, telling him about her day. The daily things that happened to her simply because she dealt with people were insane. And people were crazy. He should know.

Maybe I should write a book about her adventures, he mused, but for that, she needed to be here, telling him all the stories.

Was it weird that he missed her so intensely?

Maybe he wasn’t missing her per se, maybe he was just feeling the absence of noise. He fired up the TV. It was tuned to a golf channel, but he didn’t bother to change the channel. The announcer droned on in an extremely monotone voice.

Teresa could talk for hours without getting tired, and he loved hearing her speak.

And the funny thing was he’d never had problems writing while she was doing that, mulling around, popping in to see how he was doing every once in a while, and having a quick chat. He liked those small breaks with her. Even when she was watching TV – and loudly – he could continue describing the world hiding inside his head without a problem.

He wondered if his ability to work despite the noise around him came from the fact that he had been in a war where he was compelled to do his thing in far worse circumstances, under pressure, and surrounded by danger.

What was TV noise compared to that?

As it turned out, the silence made him uneasy. He turned off the TV to prove himself wrong. He wasn’t.

At times like this, when he was confronted with himself, warts and all, he was slightly saddened that he and Teresa had never had children. Teresa never wanted any, was enjoying her life too much as it was, and he was okay with that. Samson never felt like he was missing something in his life, at any rate. They shared a great life; why ruin it?

There was enough suffering, pain, poverty, destruction, and disease in this world. Why condemn an innocent child to all that? Was that too cynical? Hypocritical? Samson couldn’t be sure. And where did that attitude come from, anyway? His childhood wasn’t bad. He’d had a great mother who loved him and would have done anything for him. And she had. She was a single mom and had struggled greatly to raise him. They had been poor but happy.

Samson had nothing but respect for his deceased mother; however, there were times he felt like he was the reason she had struggled so greatly. Who knew what her life would have looked like without him in the picture? Better? He was sure of that.

They had barely managed to make ends meet, even though she had worked two jobs, sometimes three. It was expensive being poor; he understood that now.

Samson had enlisted as soon as he was eligible, to help the weight on her shoulders. Sadly, not even that had saved her from an early grave. She died while he was overseas. He didn’t even have a chance to go to the funeral and say his goodbyes. That was why he still visited her grave almost every week. I love you, Mom; he sent a prayer to the heavens. I hope you’re happy.

Realizing he was throwing himself into all the dark parts of his soul, Samson decided to stop his train of thought. Stop with the thinking, period. Nothing good came of it, anyway.

I just miss Teresa, he tried to reassure himself.

This was a moment when his brothers-in-arms would call him a wuss, or a whipped man. Samson never gave a fuck. He loved his wife and was never ashamed to admit it.

He texted Teresa to call him the second she landed because otherwise, he would worry about her.

With that settled and his mind once again locked tight, Samson grabbed the remote.

“Let’s get this party started,” he said to the empty house.

He browsed through a list of horror/action movies, looking for something new to watch.

There was no surprise he liked that genre. It was the focus of his writing as well.

I wonder if they’ll ever make a movie out of one of my books, he thought. He was excited by that prospect. Not that anyone was offering, but it would be special.

Teresa hated horror movies, and she had never read his books. She found them too scary and gruesome, so with her away, this was the perfect opportunity for him to sit around and indulge since he wasn’t one of those people who would torment their partners on movie nights simply because it was his turn to choose the movie. He made sure they watched something they would both enjoy.

But now, the TV was all his. That got him excited, like a little kid.

When he found something he liked, he set everything up and ordered a pizza. While he waited, he went to the kitchen and made a shitload of popcorn. He even found some stashed Twizzlers and grinned because Teresa hadn’t found them and eaten them.

Samson was going for the full experience. Once his pizza arrived, he placed everything on the coffee table in the living room. The final touch was the bottle of cold beer he grabbed from the fridge before he parked his ass on the couch and started the movie.

This is the life, he thought, taking a sip of his drink and a mouthful of popcorn. It was pretty salty, just the way he liked it. He settled for a gruesome action flick.

Samson was sure this spot would become the center of his universe for the week, and that was okay. The movie he chose, The Dark Road, did not disappoint despite the cheesy title. Maybe cheesy titles were part of the charm.

Samson remembered a time when he liked a different kind of action film: He used to love watching war movies. But after living through such things, he preferred to watch something else. Watching actors playing war did something unpleasant to him. In a way, it pissed him off to remember how it looked. No matter how realistic they tried to make those movies, the reality was much worse.

That was why he avoided them. Who wanted to have all those negative feelings while trying to relax? Certainly not him. It was imperative to avoid any kind of triggers on his journey to full recovery.

Malcolm told him how one of their buddies from the war, Trent, cracked under the pressure and started going to therapy. Samson believed he wasn’t so far gone to need to seek help from a stranger. He was dealing with it on his own and making money while he did.

Besides, he liked dealing with things on his own. After doing it all his life, Samson didn’t know any different way to live; to be. That didn’t mean he judged people who sought help. He felt everyone should choose their paths.

Then the main character on the screen just lost his head – literally – and Samson grimaced, taking a sip of his beer.

“Wouldn’t want to be you, buddy,” he said while saluting with his bottle.

Was talking to himself a bad sign? He brushed it off. Everything was fine unless someone talked back to him.

Not that he cared much either way. As far as he was concerned, watching horror movies and enjoying extremely greasy pizza that he washed down with domestic beer was pure heaven, insane or not.

Buy Don’t Open The Door on Amazon today!

ABOUT COLE BAXTER

Cole Baxter loves writing psychological suspense thrillers. It’s all about that last reveal that he loves shocking readers with.

He grew up in New York, where there crime was all around. He decided to turn that into something positive with his fiction.

His stories will have you reading through the night—they are very addictive!

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For more information, be sure to check out the links below!

colebaxterauthor@gmail.com

ALSO BY COLE BAXTER

Detective Carrie Blake Series:

Deadly Truth - Book 1

Deadly Justice - Book 2

Deadly Feud - Book 3

Deadly Lie - Book 4

The Perfect Daughter

The Doctor’s Secret

Don’t Open The Door

The Hollow Husband

I Won’t Let You Go

The Betrayal

The Perfect Surrogate

The Perfect Surrogate

The Perfect Suitor

What She Witnessed

Finding The Other Woman

Going Insane

Prime Suspect

Trust A Stranger

Did He Do It

Follow You

The Perfect Nanny

What Happened Last Night

Perfect Obsession

She’s Missing

What She Forgot

Before She’s Gone

Stolen Son

Box Sets:

Psychological Thriller Box Set Volume 1