Angel Killer Page 11

  “I know the type.” I wonder how long Damian had been watching me. He had to go out of his way for me to see him sitting there.

  “Ahem, I can’t tell you how much effort it takes for me not to stand out.”

  “Well, just the same. Do it a little farther away. And your profile is about as useless as a fortune cookie.” I’m resisting the urge to call one of the airport police officers to detain him. Maybe not press charges, but at least have him held long enough to find out who he really is. Sadly, that would be one more complication I don’t need at the moment. I might regret not doing it, but it’s not going to help me catch the Warlock right now.

  Damian reads my face. “I can tell you’re conflicted by my presence. I need to catch a flight anyway. I’ll leave you with a thought. And this doesn’t come from an amateur. As a person who takes making himself appear to be other people very seriously, it’s not hard to see when someone else has stumbled onto one of my secrets.”

  “What would that be?” It’s rare that he ever acknowledges his penchant for deception, much less his technique.

  Damian stands up and straightens the crease in his slacks. “I don’t choose the role. I let it choose me. At first I wondered if he chose the girl because she looked like Chloe McDonald or if Chloe was murdered because she looked like the second victim. When I saw our fake pilot it became obvious. He’s choosing his victims to fit the faces of the already deceased. Both the second girl and our fake pilot were chosen because they looked like somebody else.”

  “I think we already know this, Damian. Sucks that you came all the way out here to tell me this.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Then you know how as well? It was an old family trick, wasn’t it?”

  “What do you mean, how?”

  “How would you find a girl that looked like Chloe, or a man like a missing pilot?”

  I haven’t even thought about that question. I’ve been too focused on airplanes and feathers. “What do you mean?”

  Damian’s lips form a cocky grin. “Maybe it wasn’t a wasted trip. It never is to see you. Maybe you should start by asking ‘Who do I look like?’ Literally. I’m sure it’s a question our nondescript, very bland Warlock once asked.” Damian gives me a wink and leaves to chase after what I hope is an imaginary flight.

  I watch as he retreats down the moving sidewalk and vanishes into the crowd. He left his hat on the seat. I tuck it into my bag for when I get a chance to ask someone in forensics for a favor.

  I hear my flight called. I’m about to put my laptop away and worry about Damian’s puzzle later when the answer hits me.

  How could I have been so blind?

  22

  DAMIAN LITERALLY SPELLED it out for me. When he impersonates people, he starts with people he already looks like. He finds someone that resembles him.

  I start with a simple Google search: “Who do I look like?” Several sites come up. I click on one called Faceplaced.com.

  A website loads with images of people who look very similar. It’s not a site that tries to find what celebrity you look like. This is different. The image search goes through millions of publicly uploaded photos, with a lot of weight given to profile pictures. It finds other regular people who look like you. Similar to what law enforcement uses, only this makes use of public records.

  I try it with a photograph of my face I have saved on my desktop for ID badges. The site finds several dozen images and ranks them by probability. I notice that it lets you load multiple photos to get multiple dimensions and not just face forward. The site is way more advanced than other systems I’ve seen. The speed is faster than anything I’ve used at the FBI. It also has social media profile photos that we don’t normally have access to. The results are uncanny.

  Of the images on the screen, some of the photos are actually of me from my days in magic and photos friends in college took, others of women who bear an uncanny likeness. This is like looking into a mirror dimension. I see my duplicates getting married, holding babies, doing things I’ve never done.

  I cringe when I see one of the images is my cover of Magician Magazine. God only knows how many people already have made that connection. My stomach turns at the thought of the press realizing who the “Witch” really is. There are even more risqué photos out there. I don’t need that kind of attention.

  I upload the photograph of the man we found in the Avenger. A few similar matches pop up, but nothing that looks like a direct hit.

  Nice theory. No dice.

  I ignore the PA calling my name.

  I realize I’m an idiot. That’s not how the Warlock found the match. He looked for a match for the actual pilot, Captain John Kelsford. I pull the scanned photos the Navy sent us of the Avenger crew and load that into the system.

  Three close matches come up.

  The second and strongest is from a Facebook profile of a man who looks strikingly like Kelsford. It’s eerie. Even the hair is similar.

  His name is Jeff Swanson. He lives in Oregon.

  I log into the FBI telephone database and get his home number. It’s a strange feeling. I’m only acting on a hunch. A hunch based on something Damian only suggested minutes ago.

  I pull out my phone and look at the keypad. Do I call? Should I go to Knoll or Ailes with this first? What if it’s a miss? I don’t want to look stupid.

  I’ve done enough cold calling in the paper jungle that I shouldn’t be embarrassed by the idea. To hell with it. I dial the number.

  It rings.

  A woman picks up. The database says the number is shared with his wife.

  “Hello?”

  What do I say? “Hi there. I’m calling to see if Jeff Swanson is at home.”

  “Oh my God. Everyone keeps calling. No. It’s not Jeff in the airplane!” Her voice is more amused than angry.

  “Sorry,” I reply.

  “It’s all right. We’ve been laughing about it all afternoon.” The woman’s voice is pleasant. “It’s all been a bit of a joke.”

  Damn. I feel horrible for calling. I’m just glad that she’s not taking it seriously.

  “Sorry to trouble you.”

  “It’s fine. I’m glad so many of his friends care. Who should I tell him called?”

  “Just a friend from work.” I don’t want to bring the FBI into this.

  “Well, thank you for asking. Lord knows what the text messages are costing him.”

  “Yes. Sorry again to trouble you.” I’m about to hang up when I feel my stomach turn. “Pardon me? The text messages?”

  “Yeah, from Guam. He had to fly out two days ago to help a friend who got in a motorcycle accident.” Her voice is matter-of-fact.

  An alarm goes off. I try to sound calm. “Have you actually spoken to Jeff since he left?”

  “He texted me from the plane and when he got there. Sent me photos. He tried calling but the connection was messed up. He left a message on my voice mail.”

  I feel a chill down my spine. Voice mails are generic and can be copied. Most people don’t even change their password. That’s how the British tabloids spied on celebrities for years. It could have been left anytime. “Miss you,” etc.

  I don’t know what to tell her. This woman thinks she’s been talking to her husband for the last several days, when actually, she’s probably been talking to the man who killed him, masquerading as him in texts and e-mails. Even photos.

  God knows, he could be sending her Photoshops of him in photos of Guam. He could carry the charade on for months if he needed to. Even have Jeff break up with her or get sick and die over there or vanish in a scuba accident.

  His wife would never know.

  It’s the perfect way to hide a murder; never let anyone know the victim is dead.

  I think about how much of my contact with friends outside of work is electronic. It’d be easy to masquerade as me if you had access to my e-mail and text accounts.

  I decide it’s best not to tell the wife anything right now. For all I kn
ow, the Warlock has her phone tapped. I need to make sure we can get to her before he does. I say good-bye as calmly and cheerfully as I can and hang up.

  On the surface it’s a flimsy premise, yet it makes sense. It’s what I would do.

  I call Ailes as I race for a taxi to take me back to the conference hall.

  I almost shout the name into the phone. “Jeff Swanson.”

  “Jeff who?” asks Ailes.

  “Have one of your people look him up.”

  “Hold on.”

  I run out to the taxi pickup zone and flag down a cab. I bark the name of the hotel to the driver.

  On the way back to the command center Ailes gets back to me. “Good match, Jessica, but someone already checked his name. He’s alive and well.”

  “Did they talk to him?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Did someone actually talk to him? What do the notes say? Did the person following up the lead actually see him in person?”

  “Hold on. They said his wife said he was fine. No priors on her. No reason to think she’s lying.”

  “She’s not. I think she’s been deceived. She’s only been talking to him via text message for the last three days. Anybody with his phone could do that. Swanson could be dead. He could be our pilot.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ailes lets out a breath of air. “This is major league thinking, Jessica. Let me get to Knoll and the director on this. It changes everything.”

  A break. Our first real break. Not a planted clue. A genuine chink in his armor. And all I had to do to find it was let one sociopath and potential murderer back into my personal life.

  What will taking this all the way cost me?

  23

  BY THE TIME I walk back into the hotel conference hall, the Faceplaced.com image of Jeff Swanson is up on the screens alongside the photograph of the dead pilot we found in the plane and the photo of Captain Kelsford. The resemblance is eerie.

  Knoll weaves his stocky body through the tables toward me. He points a finger in my direction.

  “You’ve been holding out on us.”

  At first I think it’s an accusation. Then I realize he’s paying me a compliment. I pull my laptop out of my bag and set it on an empty table.

  “How did you make the connection?” he asks.

  For obvious reasons, I don’t go into my complicated personal life. I’ll tell Ailes later on about Damian. For now it’s best to focus on jumping on this lead.

  “Watch.” I show Knoll the website and once again upload the Navy’s image of Kelsford. Swanson’s face comes up as the closest match.

  “Well grab me by the balls,” replies Knoll. His thick fingers scratch into his bald scalp as he watches the website load. He snaps his fingers and waves several people over. “You see this?” he calls out to the computer forensic team.

  An older agent in a light blue polo speaks up. “We tried something similar using our database. No luck.”

  There are thousands of ways a computer can try to match a face. The crudest way is to try to match images and not the actual structures of the face. The more advanced systems measure distances in multiple dimensions and look for really distinct traits like ear patterns.

  Knoll shakes his head. “Our perp isn’t using the FBI database. This is probably a totally different algorithm and image pool. Ours is filled with mug shots and missing people.” He mutters under his breath, “Probably more modern too. Can we try it with a photo of Chloe McDonald?”

  I’ve been waiting to try it with her image since I left the airport. I use the last photograph taken of her provided by her parents. The website kicks back several hundred images. Makeup and hairstyles make it much harder to find a match.

  Knoll groans. “Damn. I was hoping it was going to be easier. We probably already called half the girls here anyway.”

  “Yes, but did you speak to them or people who said they were fine? Do we even know it was them?” I’m getting more paranoid about the way the Warlock might have electronically impersonated Swanson. “To get a better match we can also add more Chloe photos. I’m betting the Warlock probably used several to find her double. Maybe we try just the images from the media if he didn’t kill the original girl. That might be where this started for him.”

  “Good point.” Knoll points to a young woman with red hair. “Morgan. Go double-check these. Mark down the girls we actually talked to.”

  I shake my head. “We need to send someone by in person to talk to them.”

  “Why is that?” asks Knoll.

  “If this is really true, the Warlock’s got Swanson’s phone and is pretending to be him to his wife. If I’d called that number instead of the home phone, maybe the Warlock would have answered and pretended he was Swanson to me. If he wants to keep us off the track of the fake Chloe, I’d route the calls to some girl I found on Craigslist and paid to pretend she was her. We can’t know until we make face contact with the girl.”

  Knoll doesn’t like this. “That’s a lot of girls. Could be thousands if we change the hair parameters. Maybe we could video conference some of them? Just getting phone numbers is going to be a challenge.”

  I shake my head. “It’s got to be face-to-face. You can fake a person on Skype now. It’s cutting-edge, but I saw a convincing TED demonstration where a VFX studio took a bunch of photos and made a virtual actress that looked exactly like the original. I don’t mean in that squinty almost real way they use in movies. This was dead-on. It took a huge amount of computing resources, but at this point I wouldn’t put anything past the Warlock.”

  Knoll didn’t want to hear that. As head of the task force, he’s in charge of marshaling all the national and local law enforcement agencies. This could mean involving hundreds of local police departments and field offices. “Crap. We’ll talk to our connections at the social networks and see what they can do to help. They’ve helped us before on terrorism cases and some kidnappings, although I can only imagine the legal minefield.”

  I stare at the hundreds of faces on the screen that look like Chloe. Each one a ghostly reminder of the body we watched consumed by flame, and of Chloe herself drained of blood and tossed into the river. One of them is our Jane Doe. I impulsively reach out and touch the screen, to try to feel their faces.

  “We’ll find her.” Knoll is staring too.

  He’s feeling the same thing I am. I look around and see several other agents with the same expression on their faces. We feel closer. It doesn’t immediately bring us to the Warlock, but for the first time we feel like we’ve seen behind the curtain. All our theories have been just that. This is the first test that gives us a little hope. We’ve learned something he doesn’t want us to know.

  Knoll’s phone rings. He listens for a minute, then hangs up. “We have confirmation of a Jeff Swanson checked into a hotel in Guam. He’s visiting a friend in the hospital.”

  It’s the perfect excuse to keep the illusion going that he’s still alive.

  Knoll shakes his head. “No one has seen him since he checked in. The hotel clerk says the photo we showed her doesn’t match the man he saw. Looks like someone went to great lengths to maintain the deception. The Portland field office is sending undercover agents to talk to the wife. We’re going to see how long we can keep the fact that we know this from the Warlock. It might give us a little more time.”

  Dr. Chisholm makes his way over to the table. He gives me a nod, then pulls Knoll aside and out of my earshot. Knoll seems bothered by it. He steals a glance in my direction. I want to ask what’s going on, but know I’d be acting out of place.

  Chisholm finally turns back to me. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  Knoll is shaking his head. “I think we need to let her get back home.”

  Chisholm replies. “Yes, but let’s get her professional opinion first. It’s her life we’re talking about.”

  My life?

  24

  THE SUN BEACH HOTEL is five stories tall and
has the same whitewashed exterior as a dozen other beachfront hotels on the Fort Lauderdale strip. It’s several blocks up the highway from the sandbar where the airplane was found, but the rooms at the front have a clear view. This hotel is not the first place you’d look if you were trying to find a sniper or someone following the action.

  The crowds along the beach have thinned since the airplane was loaded onto a flatbed truck and driven to a warehouse in nearby Port Everglades. Agents are combing it over with tweezers, looking for more clues.

  On the way to the hotel, one of our local FBI escorts in the SUV said forensics had found canvas fibers under the wings consistent with the flotation balloons Lieutenant Droves mentioned. It’s a minor thing, but it helps us better understand how it was done. Or rather, how the Warlock could have done it.

  So far this entire machination could be the work of one man. It’s frightening to think of what one person can do by himself. There’s some solace in that he’s probably not tied into some kind of terrorist network. But do we really know that?

  We exit the SUV and Chisholm briefs us on the location as we enter the hotel. “We’ve done a preliminary sweep with the bomb unit and the dogs. Swabs and barks came back negative. Still, this guy could probably make something that will get past that. So be careful.” He hesitates in front of the elevator.

  He’s trying to give me an out to pass on checking the room that raised their suspicions. It’s ridiculous. I’m not going to let someone else walk into something I’m too afraid to. Besides, what difference does it make if I’m here?

  Chisholm waves to the front desk. “We’ve checked the registry and already spoken to forty-one guests in the hotel. Nothing stands out. A lot of French Canadians.”

  We take the elevator to the fourth floor. Interesting that it’s not the fifth. I guess the Warlock didn’t want to stand out by taking a room on the top floor.

  “How did you find this room?” I ask.

  Chisholm sighs. “The name. It was registered under A. Baris. Your suggestion about a potential mythological connection gave us some ideas. We pulled all the registrations along the beach and had a computer sift through potential fake names and anything that cross-referenced with something relating to magic or mysticism. Abaris is a rather unusual name. Abaris the Hyperborean was an ancient magician. I know. Sounds like something out of a comic book. Obviously”—he pauses—“it was an intentional clue. He wanted us to find this place.”