Crush - Alan Jacobson [131]
“This may be our last chance,” Vail said. “Can we get hold of a copy of the ad?”
“She’s faxing it over right now.”
“We need to call the Press,” Lugo said, “see if the guy paid for it with a credit card.”
“Do it,” Dixon said.
“Was there a phone number or contact info?” Vail asked.
“Email address.”
Vail pulled her BlackBerry and started to compose a message.
“What are you doing?” Dixon asked.
“Sending him a message. I think it’s time to cut a deal.” She looked up at the others. “Anyone have a problem with going public?” Vail knew it was a sore point: Fuller had forcibly objected—as did Nance—and both had since been discredited.
Brix shook his head. “If Guevara is our guy, we don’t need to do that anymore.”
“And if he’s not,” Vail said, “we blow this chance to make contact. I can at least promise it to him. Whether we follow through with it is something we can hash out later.”
“Can we get a subpoena for Guevara’s computer and Smartphone,” Mann asked, “and any other email-enabled devices he may have?”
Agbayani said, “We should at least get someone on him, keep an eye on him.”
Dixon pulled her cell and dialed. “I don’t think we have enough for a subpoena, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Brix flipped open his phone and pressed a couple of numbers. “I’ll call Gordon. He’s only about ten minutes away from Superior. I’ll have him keep an eye on the place, give him Guevara’s Beemer plate in case he’s our guy and he goes to a cybercafé to use an anonymous PC.” He gave Gordon instructions, then closed his phone. Almost immediately, Brix’s phone rang. “Caller ID says 703 area code.”
Vail frowned. “My ASAC.”
Brix silenced the ringer, then winked. “I’ll have to call him back.” Vail smiled warmly. It really wouldn’t buy her any time with her boss, but it made her feel good. When this case started, Brix wouldn’t give her the time of day. Now, he was doing what he could to keep her on the team.
The fax machine in the corner of the room rang. As Brix retrieved the document, Vail pushed thoughts of Gifford’s directive from her mind and concentrated on the wording of the message she would send. She closed her eyes and considered what she would say. Keep it short. Unemotional. Build him up without being obvious. She typed:
Got your message. Love the ad. Very clever. I want to take advantage of your offer. Let’s make a deal. If you provide us with a list of all your victims—all of them—going back to the very first one, I’ll have the Napa Valley Press here at our offices within an hour of receipt of the list, and you’ll have a front page story in tomorrow’s paper. Let me know if those terms are acceptable.
She read it back to the task force members, who had completed their respective phone calls. They asked a few questions, but the message was largely left intact.
“Any way we can track the email?” Agbayani asked.
Lugo nodded. “If we send it from Outlook through the county’s mail server, yes.”
“But he’ll know it’s not coming from me,” Vail said. “That might spook him.”
“I can set up a mail account for you here. I can spoof it so it’ll look like your BlackBerry mail. But if he knows more than the average Joe about email, he may be able to tell.”
Dixon rose from her chair and stretched. “If he’s reading his mail in a cybercafé, I don’t think he’s going to take the time to dig into it.” She stood behind her chair and leaned on the seatback. “I think we’ll be okay.”
Vail pointed at the laptop. “Do it.”
“I’ll need some help from IT,” Lugo said. He lifted the corded room phone and dialed an extension. He pinned the handset against his shoulder with his head and configured the mail account per the tech’s instructions. He hung up and said, “I’m ready. I’ve got tracking enabled. He won’t know. We’ll see when it’s delivered to his mail server.”
Lugo sent the message, then leaned back in his chair. “Now we wait.”
The mail delivery receipt came back almost immediately; the UNSUB’s response within thirty minutes. The familiar Outlook “mail