Proof (Caroline Auden Book 2)

by C. E. Tobisman

Caroline’s heart pounded.

  The string of letters and numbers was the second half of the security firm’s two-factor authentication.

  Using thumb and forefinger to bring the image of her father’s phone into larger relief, Caroline quickly typed the letters and numbers into the authentication pane of the log-in panel.

  She was in.

  The list of her father’s clients appeared in the upper left-hand corner of the home page.

  She navigated quickly to BanCorp.

  Using her father’s configuration file, she found the credentials she needed to access BanCorp’s server. Hopefully a single database would contain everything she needed.

  She glanced at the clock.

  Her dad would return in three minutes. She needed to get in and out fast.

  Hurdling rapidly over the last few security barriers, Caroline set her search parameters to capture every account that BanCorp had emptied and given to Oasis via affidavit withdrawal in the last five years. She grabbed all data on the withdrawals. Names. Dates. Bank branches.

  When she had what she needed, she sent the data to a point of retrieval and then logged out and killed the video-conference connection.

  Smash and grab.

  She was out.

  With her heart still beating hard in her chest, she navigated to the retrieval point. It was a remote location on the Internet, unconnected to her IP. After opening the files she’d just sent to herself there, she saved the information onto her laptop then got out, hiding her tracks.

  Caroline’s chest surged with hope.

  Now she had a way to prove that Oasis regularly used caregivers to induce residents to leave estates to it. She had the volume of bequests.

  She also had the data that Harold had provided—the deaths at The Pastures’ facilities in the last five years. She could compare that list to the list of BanCorp affidavit-withdrawal transactions. Not all residents of The Pastures would’ve banked with BanCorp, but it would still be interesting to see what percentage of deceased residents had left their estates to Oasis.

  Her eyes traveled back to her laptop’s screen.

  The information from her father spanned many pages.

  She needed to find a way to corral it.

  Opening a spreadsheet, Caroline began inserting each piece of data from each page. Name. Date of will. Bank branch. Amount.

  The process of creating the spreadsheet and then cross-checking the information against The Pastures’ records would take hours, but it didn’t matter. Caroline wasn’t tired.

  The thrill of the chase still pumped through her veins, enlivening her senses and honing her awareness until there was nothing in the world except the screen glowing before her. This was what it felt like to hack: as if she had cracked through time itself, taking her outside it. While the clock whirled, she felt nothing. No hunger. No fatigue. No interest in anything but the data in front of her face.

  Caroline’s hands paused above the keys as she realized the risks her father had taken for her. He’d risked his job. Possibly even his freedom. Sure, he’d created some plausible deniability for himself with his trip to the kitchen for coffee and his visit to his coworker, but he had to know it was flimsy.

  The significance of his sacrifice settled around Caroline.

  Her father had seen the number of hits—the number of times that Oasis had received a bequest in the last five years. Something evil lurked in the volume. He’d let her retrieve the list of names so she could keep trying to bring that evil into the light.

  He believed in her. He believed in what she was doing.

  Now she needed to vindicate his belief.

  The early morning found Caroline still hunched over the spreadsheet, which she’d privately dubbed “the Spreadsheet of Death.” She’d discovered thirty-seven hits at The Pastures’ facilities. Thirty-seven times in the last five years, a resident of The Pastures had died and left his or her estate to Oasis. The number was suspiciously high.

  And there was a pattern, too. While there were instances of gifts to Oasis from residents of The Pastures’ facilities all over the state, all of the transactions in the last year had been performed at a single BanCorp branch. Every month, someone from Oasis went to the Hope Street branch and made a large set of affidavit withdrawals. There was no pattern to the dates, but it was clear that Oasis was doing the errand regularly.

  Caroline hadn’t been able to fit every piece of data that her father had given her onto the spreadsheet, but it contained plenty of leads. It would be rocket fuel for an investigation.

  Glancing at her phone, Caroline noticed a new text. Amy.

  Call me.

  The time stamp showed Amy had sent the message hours earlier.

  Through the window, the first hint of daylight brushed the top of the horizon. But it was still too early to call Amy.

  Putting the phone aside, Caroline tried to focus on the screen in front of her. Exhaustion crested, making her eyelids heavier and heavier, but she had one last thing to do.

  She hit “Print” to generate a hard copy of the Spreadsheet of Death. The numbers and names. The dates and times. Every entry pointed at a wrongdoing. Each was a possible link to a disgruntled would-be heir who had been surprised by a loved one’s gift to Oasis.

  She just had to find the right federal prosecutor to hand the spreadsheet to.

  Tomorrow, she’d do that.

  In the kitchen, the remote printer whirred to life.

  Even before the spreadsheet had finished printing, Caroline had fallen asleep.

  The cell phone’s ring floated toward Caroline’s consciousness as if across a chasm.

  It took long seconds to identify the sound.

  With a start, Caroline lifted her head from her bed, hair plastered to her cheek.

  Light streamed into her bedroom. The position of the sun suggested late morning. She’d slept in. Her featherbed felt warm and comfortable, and the phone was in it somewhere.

  She dug through its folds until the sound grew louder. When she finally found the phone, she wrinkled her brow at the caller.

  Tracy Garber. Amy’s sister.

  Tracy had been Caroline’s college roommate—Caroline had met Amy through her years ago. Now Tracy lived in Boston. It had been ages since they’d caught up.

  “Hey, Tracy,” Caroline said.

  “There’s been an accident,” Tracy said in the strained tone of emotional agony.

  Caroline’s heart stopped.

  “Amy’s alive. She’s in critical condition. Hector’s dead.”

  The words landed like a blow to Caroline’s diaphragm. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Where is she?”

  “Central Hospital. Room 205.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Amy’s parents sat slumped in the waiting room. Both looked haggard, their eyes haunted.

  When they saw Caroline, they stepped toward her, arms outstretched. Even though she’d never known the Garbers well enough to move beyond pleasantries when they called the office, Caroline now buried herself in a hug.

  Stepping back, she asked, “How is she?”

  “She’s sleeping right now,” Mrs. Garber said.

  “Is she really going to be okay?” Caroline asked. Nothing seemed real. The hospital. The news that Hector had died. That her friend and assistant had been gravely injured.

  “She’s got a shattered pelvis, a broken leg, a couple of broken ribs, and a punctured lung. She lost some blood. She’s got a long road ahead, but the doctors say she’ll recover,” Mrs. Garber answered.

  “In body, anyway,” added Mr. Garber. “She’s devastated about Hector.”

  “What happened?” Caroline asked, swallowing the bile that had crept up her throat.

  “Accident. Someone ran them off the road up on Highline. You know, the part of the climb up the mountain to Lake Arrowhead where there’s that steep drop on one side. Hector tried to stay on the road, but that little car that Amy bought was too light.” Mrs. Garber broke
off, a harrowed, ragged edge to her voice. “They went over the edge.”

  “Oh my God.” Caroline had driven that road before. She’d clung to the center divider to avoid getting too close to the abyss. She imagined Amy’s terror at passing over the lip.

  “Their car rolled until it hit a tree,” Mr. Garber said. “They’d have tumbled down the hill even farther if the tree hadn’t been there. The car caught fire.”

  Caroline’s head swam with dizziness at the horrific description.

  “How’d she get out of the car and away from the fire with a broken leg?” she asked.

  “Hector saved her,” Mr. Garber choked out. “That boy dragged her clear of the car. He got her away from the fire. He died doing it. He’d lost so much blood . . .”

  Caroline put her hand on Mr. Garber’s arm. He didn’t need to say more. It was enough.

  She bowed her head at the determination—the love—it had required for Hector to ignore his wounds and put Amy’s safety ahead of his own. She regretted every bad thing she’d ever thought about him. His family had to be devastated.

  “Can I see her?” she asked Mrs. Garber.

  “Yes, of course. She’s on pain meds. She’s been in and out of consciousness, but you can try. She’s been asking for you.”

  Caroline entered the hospital room quietly, as if her footfalls could harm her friend.

  She almost gasped aloud at the sight before her.

  Amy was unrecognizable. Bandaged and broken. Hooked up to tubes and monitors. Her hair was bloody, and her face was swollen.

  Caroline’s vision blurred with tears.

  As if sensing someone near, Amy opened her eyes.

  Caroline swiped the moisture away from her own eyes.

  She sat down on the chair next to the bed.

  “Hey, there,” Caroline said, taking her friend’s hand. That bit of Amy’s body, at least, didn’t seem injured.

  Amy slowly turned her head to face Caroline. Her eyes struggled to focus.

  “Caro?” Amy’s voice scratched out the question across a dry throat.

  “I’m here.” Caroline grabbed the cup of water on the tray beside Amy’s bed and offered the straw to her to drink, but Amy shook her head.

  “He did it,” she croaked.

  “Don’t talk, honey,” Caroline said, offering the water again.

  “He did it,” Amy whispered again, more insistently.

  “Yes, I know. He got you out.”

  “No. Roe.” Amy struggled with the name on her bruised lips. “Mark Roe. Service agent. Oasis.”

  Though her eyelashes fluttered, Amy kept her gaze trained on Caroline, her eyes holding a desperate need to be understood.

  “Roe?” Caroline echoed.

  “Drove car,” Amy said.

  Caroline’s pulse quickened.

  “The one that ran you off the road?” she asked.

  Amy nodded slightly. “Saw him. Blond. Vampire.”

  A shiver ran down Caroline’s arms.

  “What kind of car was it?” Caroline asked. She already knew the answer.

  “BMW.”

  “A black one,” Caroline finished for her. The car from the parking lot at Horus’s Egyptian Café. The car that had followed her from Il Centro Paletería. She knew the driver now. Mark Roe. Oasis’s service agent.

  But how had he found Amy? Had he run Amy’s license plate? Or maybe—

  “Did you try to hack Oasis?” Caroline asked.

  Amy closed her eyes, squeezing out tears between her blonde lashes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Caroline said, knowing the words were flimsy. What was she sorry for? Sorry the world could be brutal? Sorry bad things could happen to good people? Sorry that she’d ever taught Amy about hacking? Or that she hadn’t taught her enough to avoid getting traced?

  Caroline stroked her friend’s hand, murmuring words of empty comfort. Amy had always been like the sun. A halo of blonde curls as unruly as her spirit. Her bright, shining friend, always there for a smile, now lay here battered and bruised, with her eyes dark and dull.

  “They did this,” Amy said, her eyes still closed.

  “I know,” Caroline said, nausea creeping up her throat again. Oasis had been willing to kill to protect itself, and she’d brought its wrath down on her friend. She’d brought Hector to his death.

  With obvious effort, Amy turned her head to face Caroline.

  “The ninja drive. In my apartment. Everything I found.”

  “What did you find?” Caroline asked, her spiral of guilt temporarily arrested by the urgency in her friend’s voice.

  “Oasis. I found out about them,” Amy said, half rising. “Tried calling. Tried telling you—”

  “I understand. The ninja,” Caroline said, urging Amy back down to the bed. “I’ll get it.”

  Amy let her body sink back into the covers.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as her eyes finally slipped shut.

  Soon, her breath lengthened, growing regular with sleep.

  Rising to her feet, Caroline looked down on her friend.

  The flash drive seemed irrelevant in the face of the human tragedy in the room behind her. But she owed it to Amy to retrieve it. Hector had died because of what was stored there. Whatever was on it was dangerously valuable.

  Caroline blinked in the bright hall outside Amy’s hospital room.

  At the nursing station, there were two uniformed police officers and a detective in plain clothes talking with Mr. Garber. The detective leaned against the wall, jotting notes on a pad.

  When he finished writing, he handed a business card to Mr. Garber.

  Amy’s dad looked down at the card, then back up at the detective. He gave a curt nod before turning to walk away, back toward the family waiting room.

  At the sight of the law enforcement personnel, Caroline changed her plan.

  “The guy who did this is named Mark Roe,” Caroline said, stopping in front of them.

  “Slow down, miss,” said the detective, turning his notepad to a blank page.

  He leaned back against the wall, positioned his pen over his pad, and then met Caroline’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows in invitation.

  “This wasn’t an accident,” Caroline began again.

  “That’s what your friend says, yes.”

  Caroline’s face prickled with heat. It was clear from his inflection that he didn’t believe her.

  “It isn’t the meds. She’s not deluded. She knows what she saw.”

  The detective inclined his head in a way that let Caroline know he’d decide for himself. “Please just tell me everything you know.”

  The halfhearted, skeptical invitation was enough. In a rush, Caroline described her previous encounters with the black BMW. She explained how Amy had seen Mark Roe when she’d served him with a complaint against Oasis—such that Amy could’ve positively identified him as the man who’d run her off the cliff.

  “We’ll do our best to follow up,” the detective said when she finished.

  “Thank you,” Caroline said. She couldn’t ask him to do anything more than that.

  But then her eyes fell on the notepad.

  It was still blank.

  The detective hadn’t taken a single note.

  Frustration sparked in Caroline’s chest. He’d been humoring her. He’d decided Amy was drugged and Caroline was just a distraught friend, mindlessly crediting Amy’s story.

  She opened her mouth to describe the affidavit-withdrawals scheme and Simon Reed and the watch and everything else she’d discovered. Perhaps if he understood the larger context, he’d shed the indifference he wore like armor. Perhaps he’d feel some echo of his police academy days and the reasons he’d gone into law enforcement. He was supposed to protect people like Amy. Like Hector.

  But then she stopped as a different explanation for the detective’s disinterest in the details of the accident occurred to her. She recalled the sensation of being watched from the police break room. Captain Nelson’
s attentiveness. Boyd’s convenient promotion.

  As he had with Mr. Garber, the detective reached into his pocket and withdrew a business card.

  “I’ve got to go,” Caroline said, ignoring the card.

  She hurried away down the hall.

  When she reached Amy’s block, Caroline slowed her steps.

  Her eyes swept the street for suspicious cars. Dodgy people. Hidden lookouts.

  She saw nothing amiss.

  Still, her ears buzzed with adrenaline.

  Amy lay in a hospital. Hector was dead.

  The two facts reverberated in her mind like twin explosions. She could scarcely think over the din of them.

  She had to get the thumb drive from Amy’s apartment. That little black ninja held the key to slaying the monster who’d committed these crimes. Amy had been sure of it.

  A shiver coursed down Caroline’s back.

  If Amy had been run off the road by someone trying to stop her from uncovering the scam, it was highly likely that person knew where Amy lived.

  With her heart pounding in her throat, Caroline ducked into the doorway of a Laundromat. The red awning dipped low enough to conceal her presence from the upper-story windows of Amy’s building.

  Leaning out, Caroline cased the block one last time.

  The redbrick facade of the converted biscuit factory where Amy lived looked calm and solid in the morning sun. Other than a handful of Priuses carrying their yuppie owners to work, there was no one around.

  It was time to go.

  Pushing off from the Laundromat’s doorway, Caroline jogged across the street and into the alley between the apartments and the biscuit factory. The insistent odor of trash emanated from the dumpsters of the neighboring lofts. Decomposing burrata, artisanal breads. Overripe summer fruit and rare roast beef. The discarded staples of the hipsterati.

  In one fluid movement, Caroline slid her copy of Amy’s key into the lock, opened the external door to the apartment building, and entered the service porch.

  A row of bikes sat chained to a long rail that traveled the length of the half-finished room. Drywall stopped five feet from the ceiling, exposing a system of pipes and ducts.

  Caroline paused again, listening.