Free Going Dark (Thorn Mysteries) by James W. Hall Page A

the biologists are out on airboats checking on the nests or whatever the hell they do. Only two people had access to that computer. One of those was killed in a recent crocodile attack. And the other is Cameron Prince.”
    “I read the papers,” Frank said. “Prince took over for Leslie Levine.”
    “The croc program, it’s public relations window dressing, the power company trying to spruce up its image, look like a good environmental citizen.
    “They provide the biologists an airboat and a free pass to cruise the hundred and sixty miles of cooling canals on the edge of Biscayne Bay. The berms bordering the canals, that’s where the crocs nest. So Levine dies, Prince inherits the gig. In his airboat, coming and going as he pleases. Convenient access to the plant.”
    “And that made you suspicious of Levine’s death.”
    “It did.”
    “Be awful hard to stage a croc attack.”
    “Well, I raised concerns with the Metro homicide detective handling the case. Marcy Killibrew. You know her?”
    “Met her. Can’t say I know her.”
    “She showed me a video of the incident. It’s chaotic, hard to watch, but it seems to confirm Prince’s story.”
    “I’m still stuck on the cyber attack.”
    “ Attack isn’t the right word. Probe, snoop .”
    “Okay, probe . From inside the plant.”
    “Well, after Homeland identified the entry point, the plant’s security team took over the on-site investigation with assistance from NIPC. We interviewed everyone with access to the biology lab. Did background searches, checking for any associations with ELF or other radical groups. Nothing popped.”
    “You polygraphed them?”
    “Yeah, Prince passed. He looks legit. Has a master’s in biology, virtually the same credentials as Levine. He’s from old Miami money, fallen on hard times. Not overtly political, no agitator. Gives educational speeches about his croc work to schoolkids and Rotary Clubs. But he didn’t feel right, so I devoted time to this guy, and one day last month, I got a hit.”
    Sheffield tensed as Nicole blasted by a heavyset couple astraddle a Harley.
    “Turns out Prince has people in and out of his house in the Grove. He’s a bodybuilder, got a home gym, charges a fee, supplementing his income. People work out, leave a few hours later, muscles all pumped. Nice glow in their cheeks. Cheaper than a gym membership and they get to rub shoulders with a second runner-up for Mr. Florida.
    “So a month ago, two gentlemen turn up at his place. These guys definitely weren’t weight lifters. Their photos wind up on my desk, and I recognize them immediately, the Chee brothers, Pauly and Wally. A couple of Navajos from New Mexico. Pauly was in the navy, based in California.
    “These days he’s a full-time ELF. His younger brother, Wally, is a high school dropout, computer programmer also with hard-core green credentials. From what we can tell, he’s become a highly proficient SCADA hacker. You familiar with SCADA?”
    “Something about railroads?”
    “That’s one thing, yeah. Stands for ‘supervisory control and data acquisition.’ The industrial-control computer network, adjusts railway tracks, manages oil pipelines, steers sewage into the water-treatment plants. You name it, if it has to do with infrastructure, SCADA systems run their computers.”
    Sheffield was silent, staring at her profile.
    “Okay, so Wally and Pauly walk into Prince’s Grove house and stay overnight. Next morning all three slip out, drive down to a public boat ramp in South Dade, a boat picks them up, takes them out to an island in Biscayne Bay. They’ve been playing patty-cake out there ever since. Prince Key, it’s five miles east of the plant. Pry the branches apart, you’ve got a nice view of the cooling towers.”
    “So you were surveilling Prince. Doing all this under my nose.”
    “I told you it wasn’t my call. Don’t get huffy.”
    “‘Huffy’ isn’t on my playlist. ‘Ticked off,’ yeah, that’s a tune I