Credits: A good portion of this, the section about ISP numbers (ALL the tech stuff) was written and generously donated by my good friend--Ed. Unless I wanted to live like an Amish, I'd be careful not to piss Ed off. He's scary-smart about this stuff. He's 'my God, I'm glad he's on my side' good. :) Vigdis and TW are real people, and good friends. I have Vigdis' permission to include her, but TW was a last minute addition. I think that it's unlikely she'll object, and if she does, she'll probably just swat my nose, then forgive me. :)

Donaldson followed Mozell through a maze of hallways, ending up in what most citizens considered the 'working' section of the station--where they dealt directly with criminals. Clark was outside an interview room, talking to Sanderson, the blond lab tech. As he approached, Agent Donaldson said, "Mister Sanderson, isn't there something you should be doing?"

"Living the high life in the Caribbean with this lady, but if you mean lab work--I got someone to cover for me. I'm free," said Greg.

"He is," said Mozell solemnly. "I've never paid for it in my life."

"I'm her security."

She nodded. "He's better than a blanket." She frowned. "Of course I wouldn't worry about the psycho tearing up a blanket."

"We don't need citizens involved in our operations, Miss McClain, and..." Donaldson began.

"Except as sitting ducks, you mean? If he doesn't go into that room--I don't go into that room."

Donaldson's voice was chilly. "Very well." Mozell gave Greg an affirming glance, and they started into the room. "For now."

Mozell rolled her eyes. "I've gotten one of the ones who has to have the last word."

They took seats around the small table inside, with Mozell and Clark on one side, Greg and Donaldson on the other. Donaldson later wondered if she'd done this so that she'd have a clear shot at him. "First off, we need to present an acceptable persona for the perpetrator, including a different job. There are several options open to us, since we have a couple of local firms who have worked with us in the past--catering, escort, real estate..."

Mozell looked over at Greg. "Old McDonaldson has a firm."

Greg chimed in as if rehearsed, which wasn't possible, since Mozell had just learned the agent's name. The only explanation was that their minds worked alike. He warbled, "Ee ai ee ai..." Donaldson was giving him a glare, "Oh, I don't think that would work."

Donaldson gritted his teeth, hoping that Clark had brought some antacids. "And an insurance office. One of those should be suitable."

Mozell was shaking her head. "No, Catherine is going to talk to a friend who owns a hot club, and I'll be doing a website for him, plus noodling with his bookkeeping."

"If you'll excuse me, I hardly think you're qualified to make this decision. We can have a friendly and controlled environment in the places I mentioned."

"Since you aren't seeing the obvious, I'll tell you why those you suggested won't work. Caterer--I'm not a fancy enough cook to be believable, and I'm not going to be a server or dishwasher--I've had enough of that in my life. Escort." She gave Greg a fond look. "While some people find me attractive, let's face it--I'm not what the tourists would expect from a Vegas escort. I suppose I could take the bookings, if it came to that, but I can't guarantee I'd be able to resist talking dirty to the customers. Real estate. I don't know the business enough to sound legitimate, and while I may occasionally lie for the fun of messing with an uptight person's mind, I won't do it for profit."

"What objection could you have to the insurance office?" demanded Donaldson. "It would involve nothing but basic typing and computer skills, and I know you have those."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! Would you want to buy insurance from someone who employed ME?" She opened the blouse she was wearing to show him a T-shirt that said DOUBLE-CLICK CHICK. "I'm willing to put on a bit of a performance for this, but lord, I can't have a complete personality transplant. Let's face it--I wouldn't fit into your standard, conservative office environment. But in an edgy, hip club I should fit right in."

"We can't guarantee your safety in that sort of environment."

"Sonny Boy, you can't guarantee my safety anywhere."

Donaldson was staring at her. "Sonny Boy?"

"I can probably come up with a few more for Donald, but if we're going to be working together for any period of time, I'll have to work with the 'son' part of the name, too."

Donaldson rubbed his forehead. "Clark, did you bring any Tums?"

"They're in the glove compartment," said the other agent.

Donaldson got up. "I won't be long." He left.

Clark said, "Wow, you're getting to him. Usually he'd make me go get the antacids or coffee. This is the first time I've ever known him to flee the scene."

"He shouldn't have gone into law enforcement if he's that easy to unsettle," said Mozell cheerfully.

"Are you going to be doing that to me, too?"

"Nah."

"Shoot. I was looking forward to it."

She grinned at Greg. "Oh, I like him." She turned an approving glance at the agent. "We're going to get along just fine." She cocked her head. "Let's see... There's the obvious Dave, Dick, and Bar. If your eyes weren't brown, I'd call you Mrs. Kent's Blue-eyed Boy. What's your first name?"

"Waylon."

"Parents rednecks, by any chance?"

"I suppose chance entered into it at some point, but most of it is on purpose."

"Waylon. Oh, that would be too easy. Wayside, Sideways, One Way, Wasted Days n' Wasted Nights..."

Clark looked at Greg, amused. "Does she ever stop?"

"Yes, but I have to exhaust her. Do you want me to? I wouldn't mind." Greg grinned. "It's a lot of fun."

"Mozell," said Waylon, "there won't be a problem with you setting up at the club. Donaldson occasionally acts like he has a stick up his butt, but he is a good agent. He's assisted in the apprehension of several very dangerous serial killers. It's just that when he first comes on a case he has that alpha dog thing going on--he feels like he has to pee all over the place to mark his territory, but then he buckles down, does the job, and does it well. Please don't drive him completely insane." She held up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart, giving him a questioning look. "Yeah, by all means drive him a little nuts. It'll be good for him. A little madness in the spring is wholesome, even for the king. I think Emily Dickenson said that."

"A little nonsense now and then," Mozell sang softly, "is relished by the wisest men. Willy Wonka."

Mitchel Pfeiffer showed up just about the time that Agent Donaldson was ready to confront Mozell again, and he was more than happy to postpone dealing with the mocking computer tech--until he realized that he would instead be confronting a hard-edged, territorial, P.O'ed veteran homicide detective.

In the meantime Mozell went back to her office, and Greg went back to the lab. Mozell figured she might as well get a jump on things, and Greg just couldn't stand being away from the lab for too long when he was in the building. He was reluctant to leave her alone till she pointed out that he was right across the hall, "...and I can scream loud enough for you to hear me, even without taking a deep breath. I almost wish he'd try it. I could nominate him for a Darwin Award."

She'd requested some information the day before, and she reflected that there was nothing like hinting that though she was technically dealing with the FBI, the IRS might take an interest--if things were delayed. It inspired swift and cordial co-operation. The material she wanted was waiting in her email Inbox.

She stared at the information provided, feeling her anger and disbelief--and fear--rising. "Oh, I do not believe this! If I ever get my hands on this... ass, I will personally beat him to death with a snow shovel."

Greg had been keeping an ear cocked, and now he came to the door of her office. "Snowshove? You're from the Gulf Coast--it's odd that would be your weapon of choice."

"It isn't--I just felt the need to be colorful. My choice would be a snub nosed .32, but I had to wield a snow shovel. I lived in Denver from third to sixth grade, and I'm sure those things could do splendid damage."

"What's the trouble? Can I help?"

"Yeah.. you'd better get Grissom and the Feebs. I've been trying to run a trace on the email headers I managed to save. I don't like the results." She smiled as the younger man hurried off. *Oh, yeah. Younger men.*

When Grissom and the agents arrived, Mitchel Pfeiffer was with them. Donaldson looked displeased, but resigned. Mozell had the headers in question printed out, and passed copies around. "What are we looking at?" said Donaldson as he took the pages.

"A really cunning killer. He's tampered with the IP numbers," snarled Mozell. Agent Donaldson looked blank, and Moe noticed. "See, in some ways, the Internet functions a lot like the phone company. IP numbers identify a particular computer just as a phone number ID's a phone. And like the phone company, there are entire blocks of numbers that are reserved for special or future use." Moe turned back to her keyboard and entered a URL. "Take a look here."

The three men looked at the screen.

"There are special reserved IP numbers that are specifically dedicated to LANs behind a proxy server, or that are not connected to the internet at all. These are reserved numbers that are never used as publically accessible addresses on the internet. The IP number sequences are:

10.0.0.0 (netmask 255.0.0.0) Any IP# starting with 10. is a fake.

172.16.0.0 - 172.31.0.0 (netmask 255.255.0.0) Any IP# starting with 172 for the first octet and a value between 16 and 31 (inclusive) for the second octet is a fake.

192.168.0.0 - 192.168.255.0 (netmask 255.255.255.0) Any IP# with a first octet of 192 and a second octet of 168 is a fake."

Moe nodded in satisfaction. "Get the idea? I've been tracing the IP numbers referenced in the headers of the emails 'ArdentAdmirer' has been sending me. Past a certain point, all the IP numbers are fakes. He's re-routing his mail through an internet anonymizer, a service that ensures privacy by falsifying the backtrail of IP numbers. They're fairly popular with the more paranoid people on the web. Think the Lone Gunmen--but in real life, and squared."

Donaldson frowned. "This 'anonymizer' - do you know where it is? We could serve them with a warrant, seize their records, force them to testify..."

"There's the bitch, Donnybrook... I have the IP of what I think is the anonymizer, but it's an IP I've never seen before, and one that shouldn't be in use."

"Shouldn't?"

Mozell bit her lip thoughtfully. "Okay, I've compared the Internet to the phone system. Well, follow along closely. In addition to 'phone numbers' that aren't supposed to be connected to the net, there are also unused numbers, reserved for future use by various nations and corporations. With me so far?"

Clark spoke up. "And the last 'real' number was one of these reserved numbers?"

"Got it in one, Sparky. It's one of a block reserved for use in Europe, and it shouldn't be working. Like dialing a 555-XXXX number on your phone, one that hasn't been assigned yet. You know, like in the movies, when they use the 555 so no real person has jerks thinking it's funny to dial a number they heard in a movie. I heard there was a lawsuit over that song--you know, 867-5309." A thoughtful look swept over her face. "I think I know a way to find out where it is, but I'd have to consult with a friend outside of law enforcement."

Agent Donaldson began to object. "We can't afford to bring in any outsiders on this case, there's already been-"

Grissom cut him off before Pfeiffer could boil over. "Mozell? Can you restrict the information you give him and still get results?"

"Not a problem, boss. They're fiction fans like myself. Once they know there's a killer stalking authors, they'll get me the info I need, and ask me no embarrassing questions. Just think of them as a specialty consultant. I'm also going to talk to one or two of my net friends who are hooked into the same sort of material that seems to attract this gutter runner."

Donaldson was flushing again. "We don't want a panic."

"Said by every authority figure just before someone else gets killed, when they might have been warned and aware," said Mozell tartly. "Look, I'm not specifically going to tell them what's happening to me. I'll discuss what's already happened to the other victims. I can pretty well promise that someone I know will have heard something about this. Maybe it'll get us word about someone else he's contacted. I know this is hard to accept, Trumpson," she put a hand solicitously on Donaldson's arm, "but there are some people out there who are reluctant to deal with the FBI or police, but will turn to their friends for advice and support. Shocking, isn't it?"

That evening Greg came out of the bedroom, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. Mozell was at the computer, and he thought contentedly that it was a very natural sight. "Whatcha up to, babe?" He came closer and leaned over her shoulder. "Shower's yours any time you want it, and am I losing my touch? You didn't come in and surprise me, like I expected."

"If you expected it, it could hardly be a surprise, could it?" She cocked an eye at him. "When you least expect it, Geek Boy. And you didn't have to get dressed again on my lil' ol' account. I was hoping for the classic two towel ensemble--one on the head, and one around the hips."

"I'll remember that." He peered at the monitor. "Who are you talking to?"

"An excellent possible informer--my friend Vigdis. I haven't talked to her much since she came to visit me in Texas a while back."

Greg reached past her and scrolled up to the start of the conversation, reading.

Scribe: __Has Robert run into any more rubbery french fries?__

Vigdis: __SCRIBE!__

Scribe: __Yes, tis moi.__

Vigdis: __*bouncebouncebounce* YOU'RE BACK!__

Scribe: __*smile* Nope, I'm moved.__

Vigdis: __The job came through! Where did you end up? Are you going to get your snow in the winter?__

Scribe: __If I do, we'll make headlines. I landed in Vegas.__

Vigdis: __Really? Can I get you to place a bet for me?__

Scribe: __I wouldn't do it for my mother, I won't do it for you. You have to come out here sometime and visit me. We'll hit the casinos together--go throw roses at Seigfried and Roy, and talk about what a cute couple they are. I have a man in my life now.__

Vigdis: __Terrific! Details, details!__

Scribe: __His name is Greg, he's a hottie, and he's young enough to earn us a few disapproving looks when we're out in public.__

"Moe," Greg started.

Vigdis: __Screw 'em. You deserve it. As long as you're both happy. I WANT PICTURES!__

Scribe: __I still don't have a scanner, but we'll work on it. Serious time now. Do you know of anyone who's been cyber-stalked lately?__

Vigdis: __Flamed?__

Scribe: __Not really. Not at first, anyway. More someone being way too friendly and interested. You know, to the point of creepiness. I'm talking not just leaving reviews in the public archives. Like several personal emails a day stuff.__

Vigdis: __I have a friend in Scotland who had some jerk flooding her inbox for almost a month before she got him to cease and desist.__

This was the conversation so far, and Mozell was typing again.

Scribe: __Any more local to my area--Nevada, Arizona, Texas?__

Vigdis: __Can't think of any right off the top of my head.__

"I'd say 'drat'," said Greg, "but I'm happy no one else is having to deal with this."

Vigdis: __Except maybe TW__

"Crap!" said Mozell grimly. "Oh, he better not be messing with her! She has a new baby."

Vigdis: __Some jerk calling himself an admirer was sending her comments that were almost longer than the stories, which is a good thing, but he started asking personal questions about her.__

Scribe: __Has he stopped?__

Vigdis: __Yeah. She told him that her husband didn't appreciate it, and he quit writing her cold.__

Mozell closed her eyes briefly. "Thank God for that."

"Second the emotion," said Greg. "It must have been the fact that she was married that scared him off."

"Not necessarily. "Sure, most of them were women alone, but one of them lived in a crowded dorm, one had a grown daughter at home, one had a live-in lover..."

"But all of them were women," Greg pointed out.

"Yeah, but not BeeBee Branch. I met her, remember? I met her husband, too, and he was a big-ass ex-Marine. I think the more likely reason he dropped her is that he found out that she lives in Florida. She's outside his territory."

Vigdis: __Scribe? You still there?__

"Oops!"

Scribe: __Still here. The boyfriend is distracting me__

Vigdis: __*leers*__

Greg laughed. "I ought to justify her faith in me." He reached down and gave Mozell's breasts a quick honk.

"You snot! Don't start something you're not prepared to finish."

"Who said I'm not prepared to finish?"

Mozell typed quickly.

Scribe: __I have to let you go, dear. He's horny again__

Vigdis: __*laugh* Oh, what a sacrifice!__

Greg had moved a little farther behind her, and was doing something. Cloth landed on her head, covering her eyes. She pulled it off and found that it was his sweatpants.

Scribe: __He's stripping__

Vigdis: __Go, go! Just know that if you take this long to speak to me again I'll have to hunt you down and spank you__

Scribe: __Promises, promises. Keep your ears out for anyone else who's having the sort of problems I mentioned, kay?__

Vigdis: __You got it. Take care. Take your meds.__ A pair of briefs landed on Mozell's head. She reached back quickly, groping, but Greg laughed as he stepped back. "You've gotta be quicker than that. Let's see, I'm about to be pursued. Where shall I run?"

"Do like the girls in all the stupid horror movies--run to the most inescapable place available. In this case it would be the bedroom." She heard him padding away as she started typing again.

Scribe: __Yes, Mother. You take care, too.__ She thought of her friend, thinking that she might very well fit the killer's list of victims. __I mean that. Take care.__

Vigdis: __I will. Bye.__

Scribe: __Bye__ She signed off, muttering, "And now I know why I hate having secrets. I want sooo bad to just scream at her and everyone I know to look out." She shut off the computer and stood. *Time to go try to drown my sorrows in wild sex with a gorgeous younger man who thinks I'm one of the sexiest things on legs.* She started back toward the bedroom. *They say that for every dark cloud there is a silver lining, but this is a fucking thunderhead.*