Mortal Fear. Greg Iles

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      “You sound glad about it, damn it!”

      Miles laughs softly. “I haven’t heard you this excited in a while. Did Karin’s death affect you so deeply?”

      I swallow. “You knew her?”

      “Of course. We exchanged quite a few messages during the wee hours. Karin was one of the pillars of Level Three. A thoroughly interesting woman.”

      I think quickly. “I … I know that. But—”

      “But you never saw any of my aliases in exchanges with her, right? That’s what you’re thinking?”

      “Yes.”

      “I have many names, Harper. Even you don’t know them all.” He pauses. “You don’t always tell women you’re a sysop, do you? That you know who they really are? That would spoil the fun, wouldn’t it? It’s amazing how the perceived anonymity of a code name lets them open up, isn’t it? Especially the actresses. There’s nothing quite like boffing a three-million-dollar thespian online while she thinks you think she’s someone else, is there? You can play them like your guitar then, can’t you?”

      I say nothing.

      “And how is Drewe Welby, M.D. taking all of this? Did she finally break the camel’s back and send you running to the FBI?”

      “I didn’t go to the FBI,” I snap. “I called the New Orleans police. The FBI was already on the case. Damn it, Miles, we’re talking about murder.”

      “So?”

      “So?”

      “EROS is like an organic system, Harper. Constantly evolving. Powerful emotions flow through it every day. Sexual emotions. We’re accustomed to monitoring massive levels of input, or throughput, if you will. But output has always been a possibility. And sex has always been integrally bound up with death. Why anyone should be surprised by all this is beyond me.”

      “Miles, put aside your bullshit philosophizing for a minute. Don’t you realize that EROS’s primary obligation is to protect the security of its clients?”

      “You’re the one who trivialized that obligation by revealing the names of subscribers to the police.”

      I shake my head. “You’ve finally flipped out, man.”

      “You realize,” he says coolly, “that you’ve exposed yourself to litigation by your action. Your employment contract is quite specific about that. I would feel derelict as a friend if I didn’t warn you that you will almost certainly be hearing from Elaine Abrams in the next few days. I would speak to my attorney.”

      It suddenly strikes me that Miles Turner—who grew up in Rain, Mississippi—is speaking without a trace of Southern accent. He has finally succeeded in his lifelong goal of erasing his roots.

      “Listen to me, Miles,” I implore, reaching for some vestige of the boy I once knew so well. “Innocent women are being killed and mutilated. I’m trying to stop that. If you and Krislov don’t understand that, you’re going to get steamrollered by the FBI. I’ve met the guys running this investigation. They’re from the Investigative Support Unit—the serial killer guys—and they are serious people.”

      “I gather they are,” he says, finally showing a touch of pique. “And you and I are their prime targets.”

      I am silent.

      “Surely you see that, Harper? You and I are the only two men—apart from my technical staff—who have access to the real names of the subscribers. Obviously the master client list is the map the killer is using to choose his victims.”

      Obviously. “So how did he get access to it?”

      “I’m looking into that.”

      “You told me those files were protected like nuclear launch codes.”

      “My system architecture is ironclad,” he snaps. “Still, even the best operating systems sometimes have flaws no one knows about. They come that way from the factory.”

      “How many technicians are there, Miles?”

      “Six.”

      More than I’d thought. “If the killer isn’t hacking his way through your security, and you or I didn’t do the killings, that means one of those six guys did.”

      “No.”

      “How do you know?”

      “I just do.”

      This stops me. When Miles Turner sounds this certain, he is always right. The police would never accept that, of course, but I do. But how can he know? Trying not to slide too far down that neural pathway, I say, “Look, am I fired or what?”

      “Fired?” he echoes as if the notion has never crossed his mind.

      “You just said Krislov was pissed at me. It’s not like I’m essential to the running of the network.”

      “Of course you are. You and I are the only two full-duty sysops.”

      “What about Raquel Hirsch?”

      “She’s licking her lesbian lips off on Montserrat. Not due back for another week. Besides, she’s only part-time and doesn’t know enough about technical matters to defrag a hard drive.”

      “What if I quit?”

      “You can’t.”

      “My contract says I can. I made sure of that. This was only going to be a trial thing anyway, remember? A goof.”

      Miles’s voice lowers to its snake-charming register. “But you’ve stayed at it all these months, haven’t you? You like it. Besides, if you quit, you’ll lose your fifty-yard-line seat.”

      Jesus. “I don’t need the aggravation, Miles.”

      “No? What about your online friends, then? Or should I say lovers? Are you ready to tell them good-bye forever? Your employment contract does forbid you from ever trying to contact them in person. If you quit, I’ll probably have to remind Elaine Abrams about that clause.”

      “Fuck you. I quit.”

      “What about Eleanor Rigby?”

      I exhale slowly, my grip tightening on the phone. “What do you know about Eleanor?”

      “I know she’d be positively despondent if you dropped off of EROS without explanation.”

      Miles knows he has me. The truth is, I don’t really want to quit. After summoning the nerve to “go public” with my suspicions—and being proved correct—I want resolution. Miles just pisses me off. “I’ll stay until Raquel gets back,” I tell him, my voice tight.

      “Good man. Oh, you’d better start getting your alibis organized. Your FBI friends will be asking, and it can СКАЧАТЬ