Like the mopeds that are lined up next to them.
I have no driver’s license, though, nothing that would allow me to rent one. For the first time, I decide to use my relationship with Pete in a way that’s not altogether honest.
I put on my best smile and walk into the shop. It is a big garage with bikes hanging on walls, helmets filling shelves, baskets tucked inside each other in the corner. It is a mess, and it smells like rubber and gasoline. I drink in the scent.
‘Hey, Pete,’ I say to his back.
Pete Marley and I struck up our partnership just a week after I arrived on the island. He is overweight, but his fingers are nimble and he can fix anything that’s wrong with a bike.
‘Nicole. I heard. Are you OK?’ His voice is laced with concern. I am not surprised he knows. The island is small.
‘Yeah, I’m OK.’ But I see there is something else.
‘A guy was here, asking a lot of questions about you.’ He pauses. ‘Not that guy,’ he adds, and I know whom he means.
I feel a flutter in the middle of my chest. Carmine has been busy visiting my friends. ‘What sort of things is he asking about?’
‘Like, when do you do your tours, that sort of thing. He wanted your phone number. Something funny about him, though. Didn’t feel right. I had him leave his info for you.’ Pete reaches under his counter and pulls out a book, flips through it and turns it around so I can see.
Tony M is all it says. And a phone number. With a Miami exchange. ‘Thanks, Pete. You did the right thing. I appreciate it.’
‘You familiar with him?’
‘Yeah. I am.’ I say nothing more, and in true Yankee tradition, Pete merely nods.
‘OK, then.’ He seems to know that I am not going to take down the number for myself. He slips the book back under the counter.
‘I need some transportation,’ I say as calmly as I can. It is not as though I have not expected Carmine to start tracking me all over the island. It just makes me feel as though I have to move more quickly, although to what end, I am still not quite sure. Again I think of Ian and wonder where he is. Despite the way we’d left things, I am worried about him.
Pete waves his arm across his body. ‘Any bike of mine is a bike of yours.’
‘Until I can replace mine,’ I assure him. ‘But I was wondering if I could take a moped. Just for a couple hours.’
His eyebrows rise slightly. ‘Never took you for a biker chick,’ he teases.
I remember my chat handle and then push it aside. ‘Just for a couple hours,’ I say again, then wait for him to give me the contract and ask me for my license.
But instead, Pete reaches around to the board behind him and plucks a set of keys off it. He doesn’t ask for a driver’s license. He may not even know that I don’t have one, which makes it easier.
‘Number four. It’s out front. The number’s on the gas tank.’ He pauses. ‘You’ve driven one before?’
I remember the wind in my hair as I sped down the Rickenbacker Causeway. It had been Zeke’s bike, the real Zeke, and he was behind me, his arms wrapped around me as he whispered instructions in my ear.
‘Absolutely,’ I assure Pete, taking the keys. He doesn’t have to know it was so long ago.
But somehow he does know, and he follows me outside to the line of mopeds. Despite his girth, he slips between them and pulls one out. It is nondescript, a dull midnight blue. He climbs over the seat and twists the handle as he pushes down on the pedal. The engine roars to life, and he climbs off it, handing it to me. I straddle it, but then he holds up his hand to tell me to wait, runs back inside and comes out again with a helmet, which he fits over my head. It is bigger than a bike helmet, and perhaps it will disguise me a little more. No one will think to point me out on a moped to a stranger.
‘Be careful,’ he says loudly as I teeter on the moped, but I soon have my wits about me and remember how it’s done.
It’s different riding a machine than a bicycle. It’s more clumsy between my legs, and I begin to think that I could have gone just as fast on a bike. My bike. But the damage is done, and I’m here, now, making my way toward Great Salt Pond and Mike Burns and his refurbished computers.
I am trying to be aware of my surroundings, possible strangers – or not – but instead I am remembering Zeke; the moped is bringing it all back.
Every once in a while, FBI agents would show up at the house in Miami and puff up their chests and let my father know they were watching him. By the time it was Zeke’s turn, my father had been out of prison for eight years and I had stolen millions and transferred the money to accounts all over the world.
My father wasn’t home that day. But I was.
It was too coincidental, me meeting Zeke. He knew I was the hacker, and it was me he was there to see, not my father. He didn’t have the proof yet – they were still trying to follow my tracks – but I didn’t know any of that then.
It wasn’t all lightning and thunderbolts when he walked around the pool, casting his shadow over me as I quickly closed my laptop and shoved it underneath the chaise lounge. I squinted up through the sunlight, covering my eyes with my hand, but I couldn’t make out his features.
‘What can I do for you?’ I asked the shadow.
He flashed a badge. ‘I’m Special Agent Zeke Chapman. I understand your father isn’t home.’
I shifted up onto my elbow to get a better look, but didn’t expect much. They’d all paraded through here, these agents on their babysitting missions, usually washed up and at the end of their careers.
I was surprised to see he was good looking. And young. Maybe only a little older than me. The way he wore his suit jacket told me he worked out. I sat up.
‘I’m Tina Adler,’ I said, holding out my hand.
He hesitated, then took it. His hand was large and calloused, not like that of a man who worked behind a desk all day. I swung my legs over the lounge and offered him a drink. I was wearing a pair of running shorts and a tank top, and as I stood, I toed my laptop even further underneath the lounge.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ he said, staring at my feet, and I realized I hadn’t pulled anything over on him. Maybe that’s when he knew for sure, or maybe I just wanted him to be that smart.
I shrugged. ‘Not much.’ I stared into his eyes then, straight on, daring him to challenge me. He blinked a few times, and I realized he was trying not to smile.
‘Do you know where your father is?’ he asked, his voice a little more rough, forcing himself to be all business.
‘I’m not his keeper,’ I said. ‘He might be at his club.’
‘He’s not there.’
‘Well, then, I don’t know where he is. Sorry.’
Zeke turned and looked out over the pool at the beach and the deep blue ocean beyond. ‘Nice place.’
‘It’s OK.’
If my nonchalance threw him, he didn’t show it.
‘Is this what you do with your days, Miss Adler?’ He hadn’t turned back around and was talking to the ocean. ‘Sit by the pool and watch the ocean?’
‘It could be worse,’ I said flippantly, although he had just watered that small seed of guilt that ran through me occasionally. I hadn’t done anything with my life. Nothing legitimate, anyway. I didn’t need a job. I had my father’s money – and the money that was sitting in those accounts in the Caymans in the Caribbean and the Channel Islands across the Atlantic. But every once in a while, I wondered if this was all there was and I thought about a real job – something that didn’t mean I’d be lurking around the Internet, trying to see what I could get into without getting caught.
Irritated that his question had stirred up those feelings, I got up. ‘I’ll walk you out,’ I offered.
He turned back then, his hands pulling his jacket tighter around him, and I saw the wedding ring glint in the sun.
‘How long have you been married?’ I asked as we walked through the French doors.
‘Three years.’ His
expression changed slightly, and I wasn’t sure it was a happy marriage.
When I kissed him three days later, I knew for sure.
TWENTY
Mike Burns lives in a small cottage, not unlike mine. It is nicely kept, a pale yellow with blue shutters and bright pink azaleas flanking the front steps. Just as I cut the engine of the moped and set it up on its stand, the door opens.
‘Nicole Jones?’
He is larger than I thought he would be, both in height and weight. He has to be six three or four, maybe three hundred pounds – bigger than Pete, even. A blue bandanna is wrapped around his head, which I suspect is bald because there are no tufts of hair seeping out anywhere. His cheeks are ruddy, as though he has just worked out, or maybe it is just the walk from inside to out. But his eyes are a bright blue, matching the shutters, and his smile is warm.
I nod, holding out my hand. He takes it gently, his smile widening.
‘I’ve seen you at the Kittens.’
I don’t generally go to the Yellow Kittens for drinks, preferring Club Soda, but occasionally Steve and I decide we need a change of scenery. I am surprised that he doesn’t stand out in my memory, since his appearance seems unforgettable. But maybe that is his secret: he has learned to stay under the radar because of his unrecorded business and somehow, physically, he is able to do that as well.
He leads me inside, and I see that it’s not only the outside that’s well kept. The sleek wood floors shine, as though he has just had them done, and the furniture is modern and color coordinated. I wonder if there is a Mrs Burns who’s responsible for this but feel it would be uncouth to ask.
Mike leads me down a hallway, but before we reach the end of it, he turns into a room to our left. I see immediately that this is his office space. Laptops, desktops, tablets and smartphones litter the myriad shelving lined up against every wall. A desk sits in the middle. Three laptops are open and powering up on its surface.
He doesn’t stop but settles into an office chair that looks particularly ergonomic and capable of handling his girth. He reaches around one of the laptops on the desk and pulls out one that looks exactly like the one Ian gave me.
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he says, his tone extremely business-like now, ‘this little baby had coffee spilled on the keyboard. But I’ve replaced the whole motherboard, and it’s just fine now.’
I am leery. I need something that will be reliable. It cannot fail.
‘Do you have one that’s maybe just a little old? I don’t really want one that’s had to be completely rebuilt because of a cup of coffee.’
Mike narrows his eyes at me, seeing me for the first time as someone who perhaps knows more than he originally thought. ‘I get it,’ he says, getting up and circling the room, touching the machines on the shelves gently, as though his fingertips will tell him which one is the best one for me.
Finally he stops, runs his hand along the top of a laptop that again looks like the one I’d had. He picks it up and brings it over to the desk, opens it and boots it up.
‘Someone brought this one in a couple of weeks back. Said it was outdated and they were getting a new one. I bought it off him for a lot less than he’d paid for it, but he was happy and I was happy, because all it needed was an update to the new operating system. Works like a dream now.’ He gestures for me to come closer to take a look.
If he hadn’t told me that it came in a couple weeks ago, I would think that it is actually the laptop I’d had. But whoever had taken that one wouldn’t bring it to Mike’s clandestine business, because that person was looking for something. Clues that he wouldn’t find. That didn’t mean, however, he wasn’t looking closely.
I want to check it out, to make sure it works OK, and Mike senses that. He runs me through the systems folder, showing me how much power it has. He points out that it has the most updated word processing program, PowerPoint, Excel and all of those business software programs that I have no use for. But I pretend to be interested in his demonstrations of how each works and works fast, proving that the update has been successful. He then shows me how fast the Internet connection is, even though that would vary with whatever type of connection you’d have.
‘I think this one is fine,’ I say. ‘You’ve done a great job.’
He gets up, a big smile on his face, pleased that he has pleased me, and rummages around on the bottom shelf behind him. He produces a laptop backpack. ‘I’ll throw this one in for nothing,’ he says, putting the laptop and its power cord inside.
I realize now that I have no money for him, but he interrupts my panic by saying, ‘Steve told me he’s going to drop by later with the cash. It’s all taken care of.’
I am more indebted to Steve than I should be. Again I worry that he is getting in too deep, that if he keeps on sticking with me, he is going to get hurt. But I need his help; I can’t do this alone right now. I push away my thoughts as I take the bag.
‘Thanks, Mike. I really appreciate it.’
‘Thank Steve.’
‘I certainly will.’
‘I heard about what happened to your place. Sucks.’
‘Yeah, it does.’
‘So do they think it’s that FBI guy?’
Word has not gotten out that Ian is not really FBI, and I am happy that Frank Cooper is keeping that under wraps, although I am wondering just how he’s getting along with his investigation. Was the BMW impounded from the airport lot, or is it still there? How soon will he find out who I really am?
A sudden urgency hits me. I thank Mike again and try not to show that I am eager to get out of there. He walks me out to the moped. There is a basket on the front, so I tuck the backpack with the laptop inside it.
‘You’ve got one of Pete’s,’ Mike says matter-of-factly.
‘That’s right.’
‘Good guy, Pete.’
‘Yes, he is.’ I am surprised my voice is not giving me away. I climb on the moped and start it up easily, as though I have been riding one of these and not a bicycle for fifteen years. I give Mike a short wave as I go down the driveway and out into the street.
The airport is in the middle of the island. I head up Old Town Road, feeling almost safe in my helmet since I am unrecognizable in it. I think about the route I would take on my bike, turning onto Center Road and then down Cooneymus toward Rodman’s Hollow. It feels like years since I’ve been there, rather than merely days.
I know as I approach the airport that I am avoiding even trying to do the job I gave Tracker, but I need to satisfy this itch before I can settle in with the new laptop.
The BMW is parked outside Bethany’s Airport Diner. I spot it immediately, next to a blue pickup that I recognize belongs to Will, the short order cook. There are a few other cars in the lot, but none that I can identify. I pull up next to the BMW. I commit the plate number to memory as I climb off the moped and circle the black car.
I glance around to see if anyone is noticing me lurking here, but I see no one. I skirt around to the driver’s side and peer inside. It is immaculate, not even a slip of paper on the dash or between the seats. I straighten up as I hear the door to the diner open and a middle-aged man emerges. He doesn’t even look my way as he goes over to a Toyota, climbs in and pulls out.
I tug off the helmet and loop the strap around my arm, grabbing the backpack out of the basket as I pass the moped and go inside. The scent of coffee hits my nose, and I slide onto a stool at the counter.
Will turns around and grins. ‘What can I get for you, Nicole?’
‘Just a coffee. To go.’ I put the helmet and pack on the seat next to me. There are six other people in here: a young couple staring into each other’s eyes over plates of pancakes, a man wearing coveralls and two women about my age with coffee and Danish.
‘Heard what happened. You OK?’ Will asks as he puts the cup down in front of me and pours.
‘I’m OK. Where’s Mary today?’
‘Morning off. She’ll be here for lunch. Not too many f
olks here yet, so I figured I could handle it.’
‘I figured you might have more of a crowd here, what with the cops and all.’
Will’s eyes drift over to the window. ‘Yeah, they were here. Searched that car outside – the Beemer. Asked if I saw the guy who drove it.’ He paused. ‘Is it that guy? The one who trashed your place?’
I nod and take a sip of the coffee. It’s too strong, as usual, but I need the jolt. ‘You didn’t see him, then?’ I ask, trying to act casual.
‘Oh, I did see him. Tall, good-looking guy, right?’ He doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘He was here yesterday. Had a bowl of chowder. But this was before I knew anything, otherwise I would’ve called Frank Cooper.’ He is concerned that I’m going to blame him for what happened.
‘Don’t worry about it, Will. You couldn’t know.’
He seems relieved and smiles.
‘So he didn’t leave in the car.’ I am thinking out loud.
But Will thinks I am asking him a question. He shakes his head. ‘I got busy, so I didn’t notice where he went when he left. But obviously he didn’t leave in the Beemer. It was here all night.’
‘You never saw him again?’
Will narrows his eyes at me. ‘I told Frank Cooper all this.’
I shrug, pretending nonchalance. ‘Frank hasn’t told me much. But I really would like to find this guy.’
‘I bet you do.’ He hesitates, and I can see that he wants to tell me something more. I wait only a few seconds. ‘There is something else. Frank knows already, so it’s probably OK if I tell you.’
His tone is slow, methodical, and I want to pull it out of him, but I continue to wait, my heartbeat pounding inside my chest with impatience.
‘You know Chip Parsons?’
It takes me a second, and then I remember. He’s the guy from the Yellow Kittens who Steve says has a crush on me.
Will clears his throat. ‘Saw Chip last night at the Kittens. He told me the guy chartered one of his boats. Paid upfront and all. He was supposed to come by yesterday afternoon, but he never showed.’
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