Keep it together.
“The party was over by then. But we told her mom we’d help clean up.” Ethan chuckled. “Which was just our polite way of saying we were going to finish the opened bottles of alcohol because the catering service doesn’t offer credit for unfinished bottles of wine, rum, whatever. We got pretty drunk that night.”
Chantal was quiet.
“There’s a pool on that mammoth property, complete with a Playboy mansion waterfall, but you can’t see it in this picture.” Sighing unintentionally, Ethan lowered his voice and brought his face closer to Chantal’s. “We skinny dipped.” He chuckled at just how childish they’d been, two young, happily married adults who’d been allowed to forget about their insurmountable debt, their crack-pipe neighbors, the car with the engine that might or might (probably) not turn over once it was time to leave. Childish was maybe an understatement. Ethan remembered that they’d made love that night at the edge of the pool, under the stars and a sky that had been impressively clear. He also remembered staring up at that sky and saying, “Thank you.”
And then, after the post-sex high, after the buzz from the booze had started to let up, Ethan had said something. Or maybe he hadn’t said enough, or was it something he’d done, or didn’t do? He couldn’t remember. But something had changed in Raleigh.
She had always liked it when he brushed his fingers across the back of her shoulder after they made love, so maybe he hadn’t done it that night, or maybe she hadn’t noticed. Either way, she’d been upset.
No, no, she’d asked a question, something about the first time they’d kissed and he’d given the wrong answer, insistent that it had been a few years prior to their wedding in ’09, but Raleigh said it had been freshman year, first day back to class after spring break ’02, a time when Ethan hadn’t even thought of her as a prospect, let alone his potential future wife. He’d been right, too. And that had led to anger, the type of rage he hadn’t experienced in anyone else but Raleigh. The scary kind of inconsolable anger that, had he known what fate held for her in the coming months, he might have been more forgiving.
“So,” Chantal said, clearing her throat and moving her chair a little farther way. Its metal legs scraped the concrete floor, shattering Ethan’s dreamy haze. “Is that the picture you were looking for?”
“No,” he blurted, not thinking. He’d said it too quickly, too. Now he needed to elaborate that this wasn’t his phone, and he didn’t know the pass code. Grinning with slight embarrassment, he waved the lock screen photo at Chantal. “I needed to see this picture, yes. But more than that, I needed to see that I could still access what’s on this device.”
Squinting, Chantal tilted her head as the puzzle pieces fell into place. “Did you forget your passcode, Ethan?”
He didn’t answer.
“So, that’s your dead wife’s phone isn’t it?”
He fake-chuckled. “Guilty.” But then he flashed her his serious side. “I think there are things on this phone that will help me understand what happened to her.”
Chantal gulped. She looked a little nervous as she placed her hands on the table and made like she might stand up and bolt back to the front of the store, where there were cameras and the potential for customers to walk through that front door and save her. “Is, um, your wife, is she really dead?”
Ethan shrugged. “I really hope not.”
Chantal moved her chair a little farther away still.
Ethan sighed. All because he couldn’t just thank her for charging the phone twenty-three percent, which allowed him to see the image on the lock screen. Now he had to elaborate or risk coming across as even more of a creep than he realized he already appeared to be.
“Seven years ago, she disappeared. The cops, the FBI, they all gave up on her. They stopped looking.” Ethan pointed at his own chest, gave it a stern poke. “But I haven’t. I love my wife, and I want her back, and this phone is going to help me do that.”
Chantal grabbed her Frappuccino and studied him with the kind of curiosity that suggested she was weighing whether or not he was telling the truth. Or psycho.
“There’s more,” Ethan said with a casual shrug, “but that’s the bulk of it.”
Understatement of the decade.
After a long moment that seemed to last an eternity, Chantal motioned to the phone. “So it’s not just about the charge.”
“No. It’s about what’s inside this thing. Clues, Chantal, little things that can help me understand who might have wanted to take her away, or where she might be.”
“And you know the passcode?”
He glanced down at the floor and shook his head.
“So you also need help accessing the device.”
Deep breath. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
Chantal said she couldn’t help with that. She suggested he try inputting the assumed passwords a few times on him own. “Special dates, that’s an obvious place to start.”
“I’ve already tried them all. When she fell, this was the phone I used to call nine-one-one. I tried the obvious passwords that night, but this was a work device and she’d obviously changed it. So I’m worried that if I get it wrong too many times, the security feature will erase everything on the device. Won’t it?”
She seemed to think about it, her eyes narrowing. “It’ll definitely timeout. All standard devices time out. You’ll have to wait a few minutes before trying again. And you said it was a commercial device? For her work?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s likely a handful of erroneous passwords will not only lock you out, but it’ll also reset itself, possibly erasing everything like you suggest.” Her face softened. Ethan could tell she didn’t like being the one to deliver that kind of bad news.
“That’s what I’m worried about.” Now what? Ethan could feel his mind racing, nothing else mattered around him because he’d come so close. I have to access that phone.
Chantal sighed, but then something seemed to come to her mind and she frowned. “You know, normally, employers can return devices for credit. Why wouldn’t this one have been returned if it was a work phone?”
Chantal let that sink into Ethan’s head.
“See, Ethan, employees quit all the time, roles change, so the company brings the device in and we’re able to negotiate with the supplier, or Apple in this case. Weird that you still have her commercial device, Ethan. Her employer missed out on a good credit, not to mention the deposit.”
Yes, it was definitely strange that ParkerPharma hadn’t wanted to return Raleigh’s work phone. The only reasoning he could think of was that ParkerPharma had assumed the police had taken the phone as evidence—they had initially, but then they’d returned it to him a few weeks later—and hadn’t thought of asking for it back.
Why not? Why wouldn’t they have thought to ask for it?
“Let’s see what happens when you try one of those incorrect passwords, Ethan,” Chantal suggested, leaning closer so she could see the screen.
He tried their wedding anniversary, September 4th, 2009, and the screen seemed to rattle.
“Another one,” she urged him.
Ethan did as he was told. This time, he tried his birth date, July 23rd. Same thing. Her mother’s birthday, October 18th. Same. Her father’s birthday, June 6th. Always with the same screen rattle.
“Okay,” Chantal said, reaching over and stopping him from trying a fifth time. “It’s okay, Ethan. Let’s give it some time.”
He wiped his sleeve across his forehead.
“You get the next one wrong, on today’s iPhone, you’ll disable the device.” She nodded at the phone in his trembling hands. “I’m not so sure about those old phones, but it’s probably a good sign that you haven’t even timed-out yet.”
Ethan’s heart was racing. Had he tried a fifth time that night? If so, which date? Or, more importantly, which date had he not tried? Thinking back, he realized he hadn’t punched Raleigh’s birthday into the keypad. It was a long shot,
but it just seemed too obvious.
“It’s important that I access what’s on this phone, Chantal.” He raised a finger, ready to try Raleigh’s birthday when Chantal stopped him again.
“Maybe you should just let it go for now,” she said.
When he glanced up into the young woman’s gaze, Ethan saw that she was either on a sugar high from her Frappuccino, or she was trembling from nerves.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
She stood and paced. It seemed more like nerves now, definitely not a sugar high. “I know someone from school. He’s what you’d call a hacker.”
Why hadn’t I thought of that? Although Ethan didn’t expect that hackers advertised online, he bet Agent Klein knew a few (but then again, it was risky to involve Klein; he’d want to know why, and then, assuming he hadn’t already, he might see what was on the phone before Ethan did). Even Phil, who’d likely helped his boss negotiate the purchase of companies whose founders were former hackers, probably knew a few.
“He can crack the password on just about anything.”
“Who is he?” Ethan asked, trying his best to hold the eagerness out of his voice. “When can I see him?”
“But he’s not cheap, Ethan, I’m talking about several thousand, and . . .” Chantal held her breath. Whatever else she had to say, it seemed to be the source of anxiety. “If Darcy finds out that I referred a customer to this guy, I’ll lose my job.”
Raising his hand and forming a V between his middle and ring fingers, Ethan said, “Scout’s honor, I won’t tell a soul.”
Chantal laughed, raising a hand to her face, just like he’d hoped she would. “My dad’s a Star Trek geek, and that’s not Scout’s honor; that’s the Spock sign.” She raised her hand properly, her thumb crossing her palm and holding down her baby finger. “This is Scout’s honor.”
Ethan did the same.
When he left Darcy’s with Raleigh’s twenty-three percent charged phone on the brink of being disabled or wiped cleaned with the next incorrect password, he also had a number for a guy named Python and a phone number with a 310 area code.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Python lived in a part of Chicago known as Morgan Park, which was on the far south side of the city. It was also one of the city’s worst neighborhoods in terms of murders. But, with Raleigh’s phone in the passenger seat, its battery charged a sufficient twenty-two percent now, Ethan didn’t really care about trivial things like murders per capita.
Even with the sky getting darker a lot earlier at this time of year, he didn’t spend too much time thinking about what he was really doing until he took exit 355, the one that promised to spit him out onto 111th.
When he’d spoken to Python on the phone earlier, Ethan had been told to pass through the first set of lights, which was 111th, and make a left at the next set, which was 112th.
Doing what he’d been told, Ethan continued along 112th Place. A few blocks into the quiet and prematurely dark neighborhood, Ada Park appeared on the right, just like Python had promised it would. Ethan noticed the kids playing baseball at the one end, a few others kicking a soccer ball at the other. Soon, those balls would be hard to see.
At Racine, he made a right. The houses in this end of town were all single-story wartime bungalows with bars on their front windows and doors. Most of the properties were fenced in, and almost all of them had tidy little lawns that made Ethan envious of the little amount of maintenance they required.
Just like Python had instructed, Ethan counted eight houses and then stopped across from the ninth where there were oil stains on the asphalt. He knew from living next to a crack house for all of those years that the oil stains came from frequent visitors. Buyers looking for a fix, dealers looking for their money, and pimps looking for their stray cattle, as Raleigh used to call them.
Once Ethan stepped out of the Jaguar, he glanced back inside its cabin to make sure there was nothing in the open that might entice a break-in. With the exception of a gas receipt, the seats and console were bare. Ethan made extra sure that the doors were locked and the alarm armed before crossing the street to Python’s home.
Opening the gate in the fence, Ethan noticed how its hinges squawked from overuse. He headed up the interlocking brick walkway to the front porch. There was no moss, weeds, or even rogue blades of grass pushing up through the cracks, which surprised him. Was it recently laid? New?
After pressing the doorbell, he glanced back at the Jaguar. Still there. For an SUV, it had a sleek, aggressive stance, more like a sports car than a modern-day soccer-mom vehicle. Staring at his vehicle with a swell of pride rising up inside his chest, Ethan wondered how many other exotic vehicles had wandered onto Racine. Probably not many: newer vehicles that stopped across the street wouldn’t leave oil stains at the curb. Only restored Cadillacs, Pontiacs, and other legendary domestics could cause that kind of staining.
When the door to Python’s bungalow opened, Ethan smelled the baked cookies right away. The young man who opened the door had messy hair, a hoodie, and wore Air Jordan basketball shorts. He couldn’t have been in his twenties yet, not even close to Chantal’s age. The facial acne and clear braces on his teeth seemed to reinforce that theory. No way this was Python.
“I’m looking for, uh, Python,” Ethan said, trying hard not to make it sound like a nervous question, but Raleigh’s phone and its contents were so important to him that he couldn’t quite control how his voice sounded, let alone how the words screeched out.
The young man smiled a little broader and popped himself up on his toes before giving a firm nod and, in his own high-pitched voice, said, “I am he.” He moved aside and waved Ethan inside, inviting him even closer to those freshly baked cookies. “This is where the magic happens, Ethan Vernon of 121 Cobalt, which I believe is in the Boystown neighborhood and, what, a block and a half from Wrigley Field?”
“That’s right!” a female voice shouted from somewhere else in the small house.
Ethan’s first reaction was to question how this young man knew where he lived, something Python obviously read on his face because he shrugged and leaned a little closer.
“I’m a hacker,” Python said, keeping his voice low. “I know everything.”
“That’s also correct-o-mondo,” that same female voice said as Python led Ethan through a small living room with bean-bag chairs, a large screen television and all types of video games and joysticks strewn about.
They stepped into a tiny but obsessively neat kitchen—quartz countertops, the kind of backsplash that belonged in a trendy condo, and a fancy bar-height table for four.
“This is Golden Eagle,” Python said, smiling at the pink-haired girl with dark, thick eye makeup who stood at the stove. She looked more like a cartoon than a real-life human being. Golden Eagle pulled a tray of perfectly baked cookies out of the high-end stainless steel oven using a pair of oven mitts with a Hello Kitty design on them.
“You’re on a role, Python,” she said, smiling at the young man. “Three out of three ain’t bad.” She also had braces. Ethan couldn’t help but wonder if Python knew that the Golden Eagle was in fact a predator to snakes, like pythons, in the real-world. But something suggested to Ethan that Python wouldn’t care.
“Cookie?” Python offered. “The only thing better than her baking is the way she kisses and, unfortunately for you, that’s not an option.”
Golden Eagle sighed, clearly annoyed. “They’re still too hot, Python.”
As Ethan opened his mouth to accept one of those fine cookies, Python stepped past him, walked up to Golden Eagle and kissed her, faking being burnt once their lips touched. As Golden Eagle chuckled, Python reached past her and grabbed two cookies. “Smoking hot,” he said, spinning away from her and using his body to shield the cookies he’d just taken. “We’ll be in the dungeon.” He quickly turned his back and rammed one of the cookies into his mouth.
With a narrowed, curious stare, Ethan watched the way Golden Eagle eyed Python as he wa
lked away. It was the kind of blind love that most people dreamed about, the type that never outlasted the teenage years, but here these two kids had it, bottled up inside their tiny house on Racine.
“Come on, Ethan Vernon—”
“Of 121 Cobalt,” Golden Eagle finished. When Ethan glanced back at her, she rolled her eyes and shooed him away with her cute oven mittens.
Ethan followed Python downstairs to the basement, watching the young man stuff the second cookie into his mouth.
“This,” he said once he finished chewing, flicking on the lights to reveal a collection of pinball machines, old arcade games, a ping pong table, all of them pushed up against the exterior walls with a Coke-themed bar in the middle, a quartet of bottle-cap stools around it, “is where I resurrect the secrets on your phone—”
Ethan nodded, impressed.
“—for five grand,” Python finished, holding out his hand so as to clarify how, exactly, resurrections happened.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ethan drove around Morgan Park for half an hour, searching for a banking machine that didn’t look too risky to use. Since he hadn’t known how much “a lot” was, he hadn’t been prepared for the five-thousand-dollar demand. And while he’d emptied out his safe at home, the cash had only amounted to a little over four thousand. Which meant he needed to withdraw a thousand more. But in this end of town, cruising around in his Jag, he felt he would be vulnerable at a bank machine . . . as if standing with a bankcard in his hand might be asking for trouble.
A little farther west, across from the Chicago Ridge Mall, Ethan spotted a Second City branch, which happened to be the bank he used. While it surprised him to find a branch out here on the south end, Ethan knew he’d be safe if he went inside and used their bank machine. And so he parked the Jag between a newer Ford Mustang and a Chevy Tahoe, and headed inside to make his withdrawal.
The Last Night (The Last Series Book 2) Page 11