Deep Dark

by Laura Griffin

  Reed checked the doctor’s name on the label.

  “What about the sleeping pills?” Jay asked.

  “Over-the-counter.”

  Reed examined the latch on the window above the toilet. Then he moved into the bedroom. Peering under the bed, he found a pair of white sandals and a folded shopping bag. On the nightstand was a stack of magazines: Entertainment Weekly, People, Wired. He opened the nightstand drawer and stared down.

  “Huh.”

  Jay glanced over. “Vibrator?”

  “Chocolate.” Four bars of Godiva, seventy-two percent cocoa. One of the bars had the wrapper partially removed and a hunk bitten off.

  Reed was more or less numb to going through people’s stuff, but the chocolate bar struck him as both sad and infinitely personal. He closed the drawer.

  “We ID’d her vehicle,” Gutierrez said, stepping into the room, “in case you guys want to have a look.”

  Reed and Jay followed her back through the apartment, catching annoyed looks from the ME’s people as they squeezed past again.

  “What are you thinking?” Jay asked as they exited the home and got back into real shoes.

  “I want that phone. I want her friends, her boyfriend, secret admirers at work, whatever.” He glanced at Gutierrez. “What’s the name of that witness? The coworker?”

  “Mindy Stephens. She’s in the leasing office with a patrol officer right now. She kind of lost it after she called it in, got sick all over the floor.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Jay said.

  Wallace was good with female witnesses. He had been a defensive tackle in college, where he’d been known as “The Wall” because of his size. But he’d stopped pumping iron and now had a teddy-bear thing going that seemed to put women at ease.

  Reed, not so much. He was tall and lean, and his skeptical eyes made people uncomfortable. At least that’s what his ex-wife said. When they’d been married, she’d often accused him of interrogating her like a suspect, and maybe she was right. He’d gotten to where he expected people to lie to him right out of the gate, whether they needed to or not. Reed was thirty-nine and had been a cop for seventeen years. All that time on the job had made him jaded, but it had also made him good. It was a trade-off.

  “Strange place to park,” Jay observed as Gutierrez led them across the lot to a powder-blue BMW. Reed had been thinking the same. It would have been natural for April Abrams to park in front of her unit.

  Police barricades had been set up around the victim’s car, and a CSI was already crouched beside the driver’s-­side door. Reed recognized her—Veronica Greene. She was known to be abrasive, but Reed didn’t mind, because she was crazy good at what she did. He’d once seen her lift a usable print off a charred envelope.

  She glanced up as he neared the car. “You touch anything, you die.”

  “Print all of it, especially the passenger side,” Reed said.

  She lifted an eyebrow in a way that told him what he could do with his advice.

  “Any sign of a phone?” he asked.

  She leaned into the car and plucked something from the floorboard with a pair of tweezers, then dropped it into an evidence bag. “No, but I found a charger. Looks iPhone-compatible, which should help you track down the carrier, at least. There’s a laptop computer in the trunk. And”—she reached in and lifted something from the cup holder—“a receipt. Dated yesterday, looks like a coffee shop.”

  Someone had scrawled a local phone number across the bottom of the receipt. Reed pulled out his phone to photograph it. It might be the best lead they had so far.

  Or it might be nothing.

  He glanced across the lot to where the ME’s people were unloading a gurney from the van. The parking lot was filling in now, and Bellaterra residents were beginning to stop and gawk. In a few moments they’d realize what was happening, and then the phones would come out and pictures would end up on Facebook and Twitter.

  “I need to notify the family,” Reed told Jay. “And it’s going to suck. I’m betting they’re close.”

  “As in friendly or nearby?”

  “Both.”

  “Why?”

  “Call it a hunch.” He glanced at the car. “Someone was giving her juicers and BMWs.”

  “Maybe she was good at her job.”

  “She was practically a kid.”

  Jay shrugged. “So was Mark Zuckerberg when he made his first billion.”

  Reed looked at him.

  “Anyway, I need to move on that witness,” Jay said. “What’s our game plan?”

  Reed watched the gurney being rolled inside. Twenty minutes into the case, and already they needed a game plan. That was how it worked now, and Reed didn’t waste his energy cursing social media.

  He thought of April’s ID picture. He thought of her anxious smile as she’d stood before the camera, probably her first day on the job. She’d probably been feeling a heady mix of hope and anticipation as she embarked on something new.

  He pictured the slash of duct tape over her mouth now. It would stay there until she reached the autopsy table.

  “Reed?”

  “No forced entry. No purse, no phone. But he left jewelry, pain meds, and a Bose stereo.”

  Jay nodded because he knew what Reed was thinking. At this point, everything pointed to someone she knew.

  Jay glanced across the lot. “Shit.”

  Reed turned to see an SUV easing through the gate, tailgated by a white news van. Just in time for the money shot of the body coming out. In a matter of minutes the image would be ping-ponging between satellites.

  “Dirtbags,” Jay muttered.

  “Right on time.”

  • • •

  Laney rolled her chair back and let her system think. And think. It was sluggish tonight.

  “Laney.”

  She tipped back and rested her Converse high-tops on the edge of the desk. She checked the script.

  “Laney.”

  It was good. Better than good, it was perfect.

  “Oh, La-ney? Hello?”

  A row of numbers appeared, then another and another.

  “Yes.” Her feet hit the floor. “I got you, you sick son of a bitch.”

  “Laney.”

  She snapped her head up to see Tarek peering over the wall of her cubicle. “What’s up?” She rolled forward and started creating a backup file.

  “Are you coming with us or not?” he asked.

  “Coming where?”

  “The Door, Laney. God.”

  “What’s at the Door?”

  Silence.

  She lifted her gaze. He looked annoyed now, maybe even a little hurt, and she stopped typing.

  Tarek was one of the smartest programmers at the Delphi Center. He was tall and lanky and favored slogan T-shirts. Today’s said, “I’m here because you broke something.” Which tended to be true. Tarek was their fix-it man.

  “You don’t remember a word, do you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “The Cedar Door, ten o’clock, with me and George. Alex is meeting us for darts.”

  “Sorry, I’m out.” She resumed typing. “Someone’s waiting on this.”

  “But you said you’d come.”

  She very much doubted it.

  Or maybe she had. She’d say almost anything to get people to leave her alone when she was working.

  “Laney, we need four people.”

  She studied her list, her pulse pounding now because it was more than she’d expected. Way more. She grabbed her cell phone and texted her contact: Execution complete.

  “Laney, come on.”

  “Man, show some respect.” Ben Lawson’s disembodied voice floated over from the neighboring cube. “Can’t you see she’s in the zone?”

  “Hey,
I wasn’t talking to you.” Tarek sounded ticked now, and she glanced up to see him glaring at Ben. “Whatever fed Laney’s working for isn’t waiting for a file tonight. I guarantee you he’s off getting tanked or boffing his girlfriend.”

  “What’re you working on, anyway?” Ben looked over their shared wall, which was lined with South Park bobbleheads. He glanced at her screen, and his mouth fell open. “Holy shit, you cracked it?”

  “Yep.”

  “How?”

  “Wo ein Will eist, ist auch ein Weg.” Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Ben, like Laney, had double-majored in German and computer science.

  “I thought they had the firewall from hell,” he said.

  “I followed the money.” A tried-and-true strategy. “They take credit-card payments, so I sent a trojan in through the payment company, then established a back door and went from there.” She made it sound easy, but it had taken three days. The trojan alone had been a bitch to create. Criminals tended to be strangely paranoid about people poking around their networks.

  “What about their AV?” Ben got out of his chair and came over, keenly interested now.

  “The antivirus was okay, but I used a good wrapper, so . . .”

  A text landed on Laney’s phone, and she picked it up. RU kidding??

  Encrypting now, she responded. Look for a list of IPs, ETA 10 min.

  Laney skimmed the file for anything wonky, but it looked clean. Three days of work, pretty much around the clock. In moments the file would be on its way to Special Agent Maya Murray in Washington, D.C. In minutes Maya would be writing up a warrant. And a short time after that—possibly within forty-eight hours—a team of agents would swoop down on a crew that had hacked its way into an American electronics company that made webcams, nanny cams, and other Internet-enabled devices. After stealing usernames and passcodes, they’d set up an underground website called RealityKidPr0n and started streaming live footage of children’s bedrooms to perverts across the globe.

  Laney spent a few minutes double-checking everything. When she was finally satisfied, she hit send. Then she leaned back in her chair and heaved a sigh.

  She glanced around. As always, she felt like she’d been in a time warp. She craned her neck to see over the sea of cubicles. Everyone but Ben and Dmitry had cleared out. They sat at Dmitry’s computer now, probably deep into a game of Settlers of Catan while they waited on a scan.

  Laney logged out and stretched her arms over her head. She stood up and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder, then navigated the minefield of crap that had accumulated on the floor of the lab over the past three weeks: pizza boxes, Nerf balls, several sleeping bags. The Delphi Center’s cybercrime unit had recently landed a big fish client, and the past three weeks had been a marathon of round-the-clock hacking runs as Laney’s colleagues channeled their collective brainpower into ferreting out security holes in the systems of various government agencies. Laney wasn’t assigned to the project, but she could appreciate the challenge.

  Her phone beeped with a text, and she dug it from the pocket of her hoodie.

  W00t! U rule! Maya had texted, adding a Wonder Woman emoji.

  Laney smiled. She felt sore and tired but energized now. Maybe she’d stop by the Door after all and whip Tarek’s butt at darts. Or maybe she’d spend a quiet evening at home. Again. She could order takeout and catch up on TV shows. Or she could curl up in front of a movie and remind herself how relieved she was that she didn’t have a life outside work.

  She wandered over to Dmitry’s computer to check out the game. When they weren’t busy penetrating highly secure systems, her coworkers were locked in an intense competition with the computer science department at UT.

  Ben cursed and jumped up from his chair. Dmitry made a strangled sound and clamped a hand over his mouth.

  Laney glanced over. They weren’t playing Settlers at all—they were on Facebook.

  “Who died?” she quipped.

  Ben turned around, and Laney instantly regretted the words. The look on his face stopped her in her tracks.

  CHAPTER 2

  Reed hated gatekeepers almost as much as he hated hands-free phones.

  “I need to talk to Greg Sloan,” Reed said, flashing his ID.

  The receptionist stared up at him from behind the counter, evidently flustered. He had brown eyes and freckles and wore a thin black tie that made him look at least twenty.

  “Um, I’m sorry, but he’s in a meeting.”

  “I’m going to need you to get him out of his meeting.” Reed rested his elbow on the counter. “This is important.”

  “Uh . . .” The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and Reed could tell he’d heard about the murder and guessed why Reed was here. “I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment. Mr. Sloan’s in California.”

  Of course he was. Reed consulted his notepad and rattled off several more names.

  “They’re not here, either. Everyone’s out right now.”

  “When will they be back?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Reed gave him a hard look.

  “Tomorrow. They’re on the nerd bird, San Jose to Austin, four fifteen arrival. Excuse me.” The kid held up a finger. “ChatWare Solutions. How may I help you?”

  Reed stepped over to the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling window to call Jay. Glancing up, he noticed the golf-ball-size security camera staring down at him from the ceiling.

  “How was the autopsy?” Jay asked right away.

  “Frustrating.”

  “Why?”

  Reed looked at the security cam again. “I’ll fill you in later. What’s the word on that phone dump?”

  “Just got it,” Jay reported. “Looks like she made eight calls on Tuesday. Two to her friend Mindy, like we expected, and six to an Ian Phelps.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Don’t know, but I happened to find out from the phone company that his phone number is under the same umbrella plan as April’s. So I’m guessing it’s someone at her office.”

  “I’ll look into it. What are the times of the calls?” Reed gazed out the big window. ChatWare Solutions occupied a converted loft in the trendy business district just north of the lake. It was a sunny day, and the street below was busy with lunchtime traffic.

  “Let’s see . . . the six calls to Phelps happened between five fifteen and eight forty P.M.”

  “No kidding.”

  “All lasted about a minute, except the last one. That was three minutes.”

  Reed wrapped up with Jay and returned his attention to the receptionist, who was off the phone now but still had the microphone positioned in front of his mouth.

  Reed walked over to him. “One more question. I’m looking for Ian Phelps.”

  Recognition flared, and Reed waited for him to say that Phelps was in California, too. “You just missed him,” the receptionist said cheerfully. “He went to lunch.”

  “Any idea where?”

  “Try Francesca’s downstairs. If not, maybe the sushi shop across the street?”

  Reed trekked down a free-floating glass staircase and stepped from pleasantly chilled air into sweltering heat. He paused on the sidewalk and texted Jay to run a wants-and-warrants check on Phelps.

  Francesca’s was on the corner, a cluster of dark red umbrella tables offering relief from the sun. The parking meters nearby were occupied by Fiats, Audis, and BMWs, and Reed remembered when the same corner had been staked out by drug addicts and homeless people who frequented the soup kitchen next door. Now the place was a yoga studio.

  Nearing the restaurant, Reed spotted a guy at a shaded table talking on an iPhone, and the ChatWare badge clipped to his waist proved he’d hit pay dirt. He squeezed past a jogging stroller and stood over the table until the guy looked up.

  “Ian Phelps?” He sh
owed his ID. “Detective Novak, Austin PD.”

  Phelps hesitated a moment and then ended his call.

  “You got a minute?” Reed pulled out a chair and sat down. Phelps glanced around before meeting Reed’s gaze.

  “You heard about April,” Reed stated.

  A slight nod.

  “You don’t look surprised to see me.”

  “I’m not.” Phelps glanced around again, then leaned forward slightly. He wore black pants and a light purple dress shirt that looked custom-tailored. “April called me that night, so I figured you’d want to talk to me,” he said.

  “What night?”

  “Tuesday.” His eyebrows tipped up. “That’s the night she died, right?”

  Reed looked Phelps over. He had one of those carefully cultivated two-day beards, and he smelled like cologne, despite eating lunch out here in the ninety-degree heat.

  Most people weren’t so casual when it came to the details of a murder investigation. They tended to be distraught and tongue-tied.

  Especially if they knew the victim well enough for six phone conversations in one night.

  “What makes you think that?” Reed asked.

  “It was in the news.”

  Reed watched him for a moment and decided to change course. “I understand you and April had several conversations Tuesday evening. What’d you talk about?”

  “Well, first of all, she called me.” Phelps nudged away a plate that held the remnants of a sandwich on ciabatta bread. “And I wouldn’t exactly call them ‘conversations,’ because I couldn’t talk and I told her I had to go.”

  “Six times?”

  “What?”

  “All six times she called, you told her you had to go?”

  “Yeah, like I said, I couldn’t talk. I’ve been slammed all week on a new project, barely time to breathe.”

  Reed glanced at the plate in front of him.

  “Seriously.” He sounded defensive now. “I couldn’t talk, and I told her I’d call her later, when stuff died down.”

  “Did you and April usually talk after work?”

  He hesitated. “Not really.”

  “So what was she calling about?”