I exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. I have to go though, okay?”
“Okay.” He didn’t sound sure, he sounded … disappointed?
“Goodnight, Gabriel,” I whispered.
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. “Goodnight.”
8
Gabriel
“A word only has the power you give it. Truth is just five letters unless the promise of it is honored, and trust – those five letters are meaningless without a whole lifetime of evidence to back it up.” – Gabriel Eze
She knew my name. Hearing it in her slight whiskey voice did something … odd to me.
Van Hayden may have told her my name, but for some reason I wanted to believe she’d ferreted it out for herself.
I didn’t like how quickly things had become strange between us. I didn’t like not being able to see her face when she withdrew, to know what had affected her. Was it jokes about madness? About Kendra?
I busied myself with the damaged wheel from my bicycle. Truing a bent rim without a stand is a bit of a trick, but a Jamaican-Nigerian boy from Peckham had no choice but to learn it if he wanted to work in any South London neighborhood other than his own. I turned on the Hamilton soundtrack, got myself a Red Stripe beer, dug up a spoke key, and got to work.
The woman was a mystery – the good kind of mystery, with intrigue and hidden bits to tease and tempt a man into uncovering her secrets. And no doubt the secrets ran deep. Every search I’d run on her identity had failed, and failure was not something I was particularly familiar with. So, after working on my bike for a bit, I decided to make a nighttime visit to the neighborhood near Bryn Mawr station, in the event she planned another midnight run. I didn’t generally choose after-dark visits to unfamiliar neighborhoods, but something in me rebelled against the idea that this woman could remain anonymous.
I slipped on a dark warmup jacket, but left the hood down. My body still ached from deep bruises that would likely go dark brown in a day or two, but I was fit enough to pose as a runner if I needed the cover. I had no intention of actually running up to the north side neighborhood, but I would use the disguise if someone questioned my presence there.
The L train was still running, but the station at Bryn Mawr was nearly deserted. I followed the direction out of the station that she’d taken and found myself walking down a main street that felt like a hybrid between centuries. Storefronts from the 1950s were interspersed with a growing hipster influence of boutiques and cafes of the variety that posted signs about mobile phone use and refused to have internet on the principle that it discouraged conversation, all the while disdaining customers for their lack of cool.
I took note of several cameras above storefronts in the event that I needed more of Greene’s eyes on the street to discover which way she walked. There was an Armenian market on one corner with a particularly fine display of fresh produce in front and what looked like a hot food counter inside. I stood across the street from it, studying the side streets and their various styles of housing. Most were converted hotels from the 1940s and 1950s, with blocky, post-war construction that promised utilitarian rooms with requisite windows and little else to recommend them.
I continued down the street toward an older apartment building constructed sometime near the beginning of the twentieth century. A center courtyard gave it a peaceful air, and its mere four stories made it feel positively quaint in this city of sky-rises. It’s where I would choose to live if I were in this neighborhood.
I pulled up the address on my mobile and saw that it had been converted to condominiums in the last decade. One was currently for sale, and I made an impulsive decision to send a query to the listing agent about it. If I’d been certain this was where she lived, it might have been dodgy for me to look at a flat here. But having stumbled upon the building in the course of an investigation made it fair game. I could assuage my conscience with the fact that I was still new to Chicago, and my family’s plans meant I’d be settled here for at least the next three years.
It was late, and my bruises ached. I’d discovered a few cameras to check, and I’d taken the measure of an interesting neighborhood where a man could walk alone at night for a time without difficulty, and where a woman with a large dog felt safe enough to go for midnight runs. It wasn’t an admission of defeat to go home without finding her, but I was still left with the unsettled feeling that had come over me ever since I’d hung up the phone.
Sullivan and O’Malley found me in a conference room the next day. I’d sent a list of business names to Greene to see if he could access their camera footage and hopefully find a good quality image of my woman’s face for identification purposes, and I was currently searching all the businesses within a two-mile radius of the Bryn Mawr station to check on veterinarians, emergency animal hospitals, and prosthetists.
“We found a bank account at the same branch as Quimby’s,” O’Malley said brusquely as he and Quinn walked into the room. “It was opened by Denise Quimby last week and funded to the tune of five hundred k two nights ago by direct transfer from Quimby’s account. Yesterday, it was emptied.”
I studied the two men in front of me – so different from each other in appearance, but so alike in posture and attitude. “Was that before or after the last time Quimby says he saw his wife?”
“After,” grumbled Sullivan. “He says she was gone when he got home after meeting our mystery woman, but he only realized it when she didn’t come home for dinner the next night.”
“Do we think Quimby had anything to do with the wife’s disappearance?”
“Nah, he doesn’t have it in him,” O’Malley said as he spun a conference table chair around and straddled it with the ease of an athlete. “Most likely she took the money and ran.”
Sullivan studied me for a moment. “You’re still looking for the girlfriend?”
I nodded. “I am, though I have the sense that she’s less a girlfriend, and more … opportunistic.”
“You think she targeted him specifically for this job?” Sullivan asked.
“I do. And the fact that I haven’t discovered her identity yet makes me think she’s somewhat professional at it.”
“A P.I. maybe, or someone in one of the government services?” O’Malley was thoughtful, but Sullivan shook his head.
“Not federal. This is too small and stinks of payback. We know Quimby cheats on his wife; it wouldn’t take much for the wife to hire someone to find the money,” he said.
“Finding the money is one thing – not easy, but doable. Having balls big and hairy enough to take it is something else,” O’Malley said with something like admiration.
I pictured the beautiful woman with the enormous dog, sprinting on a cheetah leg at midnight, and I thought one could make a case for some variation of that, minus the dangling bits.
Sullivan stood decisively. “Frankly, I don’t particularly care about the money. Cheat on your wife, you deserve to lose half of everything. He’s lucky she didn’t go for half his company while she was at it. My problem is that he’s being a pain in my ass now. I’ve got our lawyers working on it, but at this point, I’m looking for any way to shake him loose without having to pay him off. Whether it’s getting the money back or finding enough dirt on him to shut him up, I’m open to anything.”
I looked up at him and took a breath. “I’m working on another angle, in addition to finding the woman.”
“Yeah? What do you have?” O’Malley leaned forward, and I included him in my gaze.
“Quimby’s company, ADDATA. There’s something going on that doesn’t fit. I’d like to use Greene’s particular skills to follow a lead on this as well, if I may?”
“Alex is in D.C. on something for me. You can have him when he gets back, and I can probably find a couple other agents with decent computer skills if that’ll help,” said Sullivan. “Also, he accessed the wife’s e-mail account and said to give you this.” He tossed a thumb drive in my direction, and I snatched it from the air.
“Thanks. I can make do with my resources until he returns,” I said, thinking of a whiskey voice and her personality quiz.
“Whatever you need, man. Let’s just make this go away,” said O’Malley as he rose from the table. The two men left the conference room together, and my thoughts returned to the woman who left the north side restaurant two nights ago. She carried herself with the confidence of the athlete she obviously was, despite the loss of a leg, which perhaps meant she’d lost the leg after she’d grown into her athleticism. She was clearly educated and had a detailed understanding of the ramifications of something as specialized as data scraping and social engineering.
My mobile phone rang, and I checked the screen. The name “Sophie” winked at me as though daring me to answer, and I smiled.
“What a lovely coincidence,” I said into the phone when the call connected.
9
Shane
“Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness rather than permission.” – Shane, P.I.
“I’m curious what name came up on your screen,” I said, unable to keep from smiling at the sound of his deep, cultured voice.
“Sadly, not the one that belongs to your number.”
“So I remain a mystery? Oh good. No one likes to be a foregone conclusion.”
“And yet, I need to call you something. Sophie is the name by which Quimby knows you, therefore it doesn’t fit who you are.”
“What are you going to call me then?”
“Some random term of endearment will have to do until I learn otherwise.” I could hear the smile in his voice, as though he dared me to contradict him. Honestly, a part of me wanted to hang up. No one used endearments with me, and it confronted everything I’d been trying to escape when I ran away to Chicago.
I took a deep breath instead. “Are you at Cipher?”
“I am.” The brief moment of playfulness was gone from his voice.
“Do you have access to Quimby’s accounts?”
“I do.” His voice had a note of sternness.
“What about the wife’s account. Can you access hers?” I kept my tone as even as possible to cover up the shakiness I felt.
“What are you asking?”
I was standing outside the Quimbys’ house in the leafy suburb of River Forest. There were two cars in the driveway, and as I watched the house from behind a nearby hedge, Dane Quimby exited the front door, got into a new red Tesla Model S, and drove away. The other car, a new Lexus SUV, remained in the driveway alone.
“Did Denise Quimby ever return home?” I asked quietly.
“What do you know about her disappearance?” His voice was gentle, even if his question was accusatory.
“Nothing, but it doesn’t surprise me. Her car’s still in the driveway though, and she’s the type of person who would leave it in the airport lot and make him pay the ticket. If she left him, which I suspect she did, someone came and picked her up.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars was withdrawn from her account yesterday.”
“Is his account still funded?” I asked.
“We put a block on it so money can’t be moved in or out.”
I scoffed. “I’m sure he loved that. I assume you guys are looking for Denise?” I studied the neighborhood around the Quimbys’ house. It was the time of day when all the CEOs had gone to their companies and all their wives had gone to the country clubs. I slipped around the back of the house and scanned for cameras. There were none in sight, and no signs of a dog, so I only had to worry about a motion-detection alarm.
“We are.” Gabriel’s tone was careful, and I thought there was a lot he wasn’t saying.
“Good. Me too.” I spotted a downstairs window that had been left partially open. I pulled my knife out of its sheath on my leg and slid it between the screen and the window casement.
“Where are you, Darling?” He sounded different. Concerned, maybe.
“You shouldn’t call me that,” I said, as the catch lifted and the screen came loose.
“Until I know your true name, it’s who you are to me.”
I didn’t stop to examine that statement, it was too fraught with … stuff. I slipped the window screen from its frame and set it carefully against the house, then slid the window further open, half-expecting an alarm to blare. The only sound was Gabriel in my ear.
“Darling?”
I didn’t say anything as I hoisted myself up on the window ledge, poked my head into what appeared to be a laundry room bigger than the kitchen in my condo, and climbed inside.
“I have to go,” I whispered before I ended the connection and pulled the earbuds out of my ears. The phone in my pocket buzzed again immediately, but I ignored it and slid the window closed behind me.
I crept down the hall, automatically turned off the coffee pot that had been left on, and then stayed away from the windows in the front of the house as I explored the ground floor. The square footage was astounding, especially for just two people. Entire suites of rooms looked untouched by human habitation.
I wondered if Cipher had done any poking around into Dane’s personal finances recently and thought I might plant that bug in Gabriel’s ear the next time we talked. I could do it myself, but the searches would cost me, and it didn’t look like I was going to get paid for the work I’d already done.
The next time we talked. It was an odd thought. It almost felt normal to imagine phone conversations with Gabriel Eze. I shoved that thought firmly down around my ankles as I slipped into the front hallway, took note of the inactive alarm system, and climbed the stairs. I wondered at the man who installed an alarm he didn’t use, and decided that Dane Quimby, with his dishonorable discharge from the military, might be the kind of guy who kept a gun. It was a disquieting thought for a home invader to carry on tiptoe with her through the man’s house.
The upstairs was carpeted in plush, white wool, and I wrinkled my nose in disgust. I hated wall-to-wall carpet. No matter how luxurious it might feel under bare feet, it always stank of fire retardants and chemical cleaners. This was fairly new and still hadn’t fully off-gassed its original chemical smell, but it did make my passage utterly silent.
The first two rooms were guest rooms, but one was actually empty, as though the designer hadn’t even bothered to pretend it was an office. In the back of the house there were two master suites – his and hers bedrooms as though this were the nineteenth century and the lord and lady of the manor didn’t actually know each other well enough to share a bed.
Dane’s room was obvious from the mess. Two different jacket/trouser combinations lay crumpled on his bed. I’d never actually known a guy who couldn’t decide what to wear, and it made me chuckle to imagine him holding the fabric up to his face in the mirror. His walk-in closet was the size of my living room, and at least three days’ worth of clothes had been flung over the armchair haphazardly. I recognized the jacket he’d worn on our “date,” and wondered what day the housekeeper came. I didn’t think the Quimbys had much to do with the toilet-cleaning aspects of home ownership.
The other bedroom was decorated simply in pale, anemic colors. There were several old lace pillows on the bed that looked scratchy and uncomfortable, and everything matched at least one other design element perfectly. The room looked like it had been decorated by someone with a need for perfect symmetry. It was the kind of space that would make me nuts to sleep in.
The closet was like one of those perfectly organized rooms where everything was arranged by color palate. Denise Quimby had left more clothes behind than I had in my whole wardrobe, but I got the sense from the space that it was by no means all she owned. I studied the photos of Denise and Dane that were artfully placed in beautiful frames, and noted that she always wore pale colors, while he wore vibrant jewel tones like the peacock he was. I found myself wondering why she’d stayed as long as she had.
Up high in the closet was a shelf that housed an incomplete, matched set of Louis Vuitton luggage. I found no sign
of a jewelry box, and the velvet-lined drawer hidden in the bottom trim of the ornate dresser was empty except for a single pearl earring way at the back. A casual observer might have thought Dane’s wife had taken nothing with her and conclude that she’d been forced or otherwise coerced into leaving, but I saw things differently.
It was time to go. I’d already pushed my luck by entering the house, and every passing minute made discovery more likely. Fortunately, the carpet upstairs hadn’t been vacuumed so recently that my footprints would stand out, but I was nonetheless careful to wipe down anything I’d touched with the edge of my t-shirt.
A few minutes later I’d slipped back out of the laundry room window and replaced the screen. I didn’t bother to re-latch it, but I did take a moment to close the window itself all the way. I doubted Dane spent much time in the laundry room, but I thought the open window might invite investigation.
Ten minutes later I was another anonymous passenger on the train, making mental lists of the assets in the Quimbys’ house and wondering where Dane had found a million dollars.
10
Gabriel
“A house is a place. A home is a haven.” – Miri Eze
“Hello, Darling,” I said, only half-surprised to see her turn the corner.
She literally stopped in her tracks, and I fancied I heard the screech in the sound effects track of her day. “What are you doing here?” She stared at me, but she didn’t seem afraid, which pleased me.
“Waiting for you, of course.” I was actually waiting for the realtor with whom I’d made an appointment to show me the condo for sale, but I was early, and I’d been enjoying the sun for a moment. If my eyes had remained closed a second longer she’d have seen me before I saw her, and she might have bolted.
Code of Conduct (Cipher Security Book 1) Page 6