by Tom Lytes
He left his phone and computer poolside and took the stairs down to the ground level. In a minute, the wind was in his hair as his golf cart was closing in on the Co-op.
He parked next to a woman typing feverishly. He pulled the key from his golf cart.
“You okay?” Leonard asked.
She looked up, annoyed, but forced a smile that didn’t hold. “I’m having an argument with my boyfriend. He can be such a—”
Leonard said, “Just be careful of what you type on the phone. You never know who might be monitoring it, you know?”
“Who cares about me and my stupid boyfriend?”
Leonard shrugged, “I’m just saying you never know.”
He turned away and pushed the Coop’s screen door. His plans were progressing nicely. It would only be a matter of time now.
11
Peggy listened to another message from her mother, “Peg, come down to Coral Gables. There’s a wonderful Venezuelan man who owns three polo teams who can’t wait to meet you, Even if he is a little bit older, I know he would just adore you. Come three days early, before you see him, so you can get some sun and get your hair fixed. We would have to shop for some clothes, too. Let me know when you can make the trip.”
She had received messages like it before, on and off, and had been ignoring them for years. The campy and chummy tone probably resulted from the warm-up call yesterday. Or maybe it was because of Doyle’s death. It really didn’t matter. Peg wasn’t calling her back or going to Florida either. When Peggy thought the call was over, her mother found a second wind, this one emotion-filled.
“And let’s bury Doyle down here,” she said between sobs. “He should be with his mother. We’ll have a proper funeral and a reception at the club.”
Peggy hadn’t thought about a funeral. Would she attend, and try to mourn for old time’s sake? But, well, she’d killed Doyle. Planning his funeral didn’t seem right. A glimpse of future angst threatened to nag at her, and again the question of whether she needed to kill Doyle just sat there. Could she have handled everything better? She filed away the question and sent a request authorizing the transport of Doyle’s body to her mother in Florida.
Besides, she was right in the middle of an investigation. The whole computer angle to the murders and the involvement of Mr. and Tricia Boudreaux needed to be understood. She hated to admit it, but Bobby provided some valuable insight into the couple. It seemed unlikely that Bobby Touro would have as wide a reach as to know about New Orleans, but it was hard to put Bobby in a box. One hour of the day he would be hanging around with the grungiest hoodlums New York had to offer, and the next he would be at the Rotary with the Governor elect.
While she was pondering the Boudreaux connection to the murders, her cell rang again. Lost in thought, she instinctively connected the call, momentarily abandoning her plan to let everything go to voicemail for later sorting.
“Hello, this is Peggy.”
“Hi Peggy, my name is Leonard.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “do I know you?”
“I’m working on something down here in South Carolina that might tie into the recent murders you had up in your town,” Leonard said, looking behind him at a trail of beansprouts from his sandwich. He took off his shirt and tried to organize himself.
“Do I know you?” Peggy asked.
“No.”
“Are you in law enforcement?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Leonard said. “We haven’t met, and I’m not formally associated with anyone, now.”
“Right, I’m sure you mean well, sir, but—”
Leonard interrupted, “Look, I can help you. I know a lot about computers and AI, artificial intelligence.”
He heard Peggy inhale deeply. “What could you possibly be doing in South Carolina that might help my investigation up here, sir?”
Leonard laughed to himself. Bobby told him to be creative, so here he was, being creative.
“I’d like to share information with you, collaborate.”
“What makes you think you have anything to add to my investigation?”
“Bobby Touro is mixed up in it with an interest in the outcome, I know that.”
Leonard heard Peggy’s breath leave in a whoosh through the phone’s speaker. After a pause, she asked, “Did he ask you to phone me?”
“No,” Leonard said, moving his sandwich around to prepare for a bite, “he asked me to solve the murders and stop a computer program he thinks might be behind them.”
Peggy said, “Bobby Touro is a private citizen and has nothing to do with my work or my investigation.”
Leonard sensed a shift in Peggy’s tone, a stiffening of her will. He said, “Bobby Touro’s more than just a private citizen. He’s a psychopath.”
The, “Yes,” he heard from Peggy sounded almost involuntary.
“I don’t know what you did, Peggy. I’m assuming Bobby Touro holds some dark secret over you, if you’re with the police and haven’t arrested him. But whatever it is, doesn’t matter. You need to get away from him.”
The pause in conversation made Leonard wonder if the call dropped. Did he push too far? Did Peggy bail out of their conversation? A glance at his cell’s screen told him they were still connected.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peggy said warily after a few more seconds. “Now, about this computer program. What can you tell me?”
Leonard enlarged a picture of Peggy Whitfield during her equestrian days. There she was in Idaho, collecting a trophy larger than half her size. Her long dark hair hung in a braid like a giant pendulum, while freckles danced around the squint of her eyes in what had to be afternoon sun. Peggy’s white riding shirt and pants harbored dirt and a black helmet hung loosely from her wrist. Leonard could tell, even from the photo, that her worn, black boots were well cared for.
“I know a lot,” Leonard said.
He cupped his hand above the screen to get a better look at the next picture. It was of Peggy in the newspaper a few years ago, graduating from the police academy. She looked much the same as before but less relaxed. And with perhaps more purpose in her expression?
“Great, fill me in,” Peggy said with obvious skepticism.
“Look, the program is called Clean and it’s deadly.” Leonard said. “It kills people, and you’re— you are in great danger.”
12
“You’re on the list,” Leonard said. “That means you’ll be killed.”
“What are you talking about?” Peggy asked.
“The Clean program. It acts as judge, jury and executioner while policing the internet. It’s found you guilty. You must move, now. Change your habits. Come find me before it’s too late.”
“I’m sorry, Leonard,” Peggy said. “I don’t know who you are, and the only connection we have is through Bobby Touro, who is not a man I trust. Thank you for your concern, and for calling me. I’m going to hang up the phone now.”
“Wait, wait,” Leonard pleaded. “I am serious. Your brother was in the program, in Clean, and died two days ago.”
Peggy hesitated, “Did Bobby tell you that?”
“No,” Leonard said. “I saw it in Clean when I looked up your name. You have to listen to me.”
“How do you know so much about this program?”
“I wrote it,” Leonard said after hesitating. “If you come see me, I’ll show you.”
“Where are you?”
She saw movement out her window and it was Finley driving into her place. His GMC was sporting what looked like brand-new tires.
“Sullivan’s Island near Charleston, South Carolina.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Peggy said. “That’s way too far for me to stop by and visit. Look I’ve got to go, somebody’s here.”
“Wait,” Leonard said
. “Peggy, listen to me.”
Peggy disconnected the call and went to greet her guest.
“Hey, Finley.” She opened the door for him and then retreated a few steps back into her house. Absent was any effort at an affectionate greeting. There wasn’t a hint of a hug, embrace or kiss.
Finley stood in the entry awkwardly, “Peg, did you shoot out my tires?”
“Why would you think I’d do that?” Peggy said angrily.
“Look” Finley said. “Somebody shot out my tires in the woods. I’m asking if it was you.”
“What makes you think you can come to my house and ask me that? Isn’t the better question: what were you doing with Ms. Bourgeaux in the woods in the middle of the night?”
“Peggy—”
“Down by the rock, what I thought was our rock. Is that where you take all your girls? I can’t believe I’m so stupid.”
“Hey, look,” Finley retorted, “nothing happened. That is our rock. It was for the case. Ms. Bourgeaux was… we were there because she had a premonition.”
Peggy rolled her eyes and came back to Finley incredulous, “A premonition, Fin, really? You expect me to believe you and that slut were down in the woods to investigate the murders? Please, save it.”
“I’m serious, nothing happened.”
Something about his manner, his pleading voice, made Peggy hesitate.
“Peggy, I like you too much to be with another woman.”
She looked away, almost believing him, but fearful of where his statement might ultimately lead. Mad at herself for getting mad, she realized she all but admitted to shooting Finley’s tires, thinking he cheated. What was she doing? This wasn’t a Carrie Underwood music video. She needed to regain control.
Peggy asked, “Did you come here to argue with me about Ms. Bourgeaux or was there something else?”
Finley cleared his throat, becoming more professional, and Peggy didn’t like it.
“The FBI does routine ballistics in cases where an agent’s life could be in danger,” he said.
“So, what, somebody shot your tires and your life is in danger? You don’t look like a tire to me.”
Finley gave her an annoyed look, and Peggy stopped.
“What’s this have to do with me?” Peggy asked.
Her hands were on her hips and she wondered why she couldn’t tell him everything. Why did she make everything harder for herself?
Finley said defensively. “Don’t fuss at me. I’m here to warn you. They’re pulling a search warrant for your place. I’m trying to warn you.”
“A search warrant? Why could the FBI possibly want to search my house?”
“The gun used to shoot my tires was associated with a hate crime in Florida,” Finley said. “You weren’t considered a suspect until a tip came in, implicating you. Then a lot of the details suggested you might be involved.”
“What?” Peggy couldn’t contain her surprise. “Surely you can’t think I’m involved in anything like that.”
“I don’t,” he said. “There are people who think you might have something to do with both situations. You were there, in Florida when that hate crime occurred. You won a competition, and there were multiple press stories with photos putting you there. Now the gun is here. The ballistics don’t lie.”
Finley was looking past Peggy and scanning the room behind her.
“When my tires got shot up,” Finley said, still looking into the room. “We got an anonymous tip—”
“Let me guess,” Peggy said, fresh anger and fear fueling her defensive tone. “Your tipster implicated me.”
Peggy stepped directly in front of him, so he couldn’t look at anything but her.
“You aren’t here to warn me,” Peggy said. “You’re worried your toothbrush will be found in the search, or your dirty socks. You were hoping I wouldn’t be here, so you could scrub the scene. You even think I might have done it, and you’re worried about your own guilt through association.”
“Peggy, I came to warn you. That’s why I took a chance to come before the search team.” Finley shrugged. “While I’m here, yes, I’d like to take my things. There’s no need to complicate this. It could become a death penalty case in Florida, Peg.”
Peggy gave him the finger and stormed out of her house. “Take your stuff and whatever else you want from the house. Cover your tracks with your Bureau friends. Look wherever you want while you’re at it. When you leave, don’t ever come back.”
“Peggy, come on. I came here to warn you. Don’t be like that. This conversation got off on the wrong track because of Ms. Bourgeaux. I promise you. Nothing happened. We can handle this, together.”
Peggy wanted to run back into Finley’s embrace. To believe they could work together and everything would end up okay. But she feared she was too damaged. Finley was too good, too honest for her. What kind of man would conspire with her to hide her brother’s murder? Probably not one she found attractive. And that was the reality of her lonely situation. She committed murder, and it ruled out a future with Finley. At least anything honest.
She went straight to her squad car and drove out the driveway at high speed, kicking up dust with her tires spinning. Along the deepest part of the Hoosick River, she pulled over and checked the rearview mirror for other motorists that weren’t there. Water rescues all year long on this bend of the river kept crews busy when canoes tipped in the rapids and bent over rocks. Recent rains swelled the water volume, making it seriously treacherous.
Moving with urgency, Peggy popped the trunk of her police car with a switch by her left leg and hopped out. Looking all around again to be sure she was alone, she retrieved the gun that came to her in the mail that she used to shoot Finley’s tires. She threw it into the swirling river and collected the box and packing in which it came. The toxic smell of plastic tape and packing material engulfed her as it burned along the dirt shoulder of the road. In less than a minute, embers were chasing smoke into the sky and they were unrecognizable. She kicked the black charred ashes until it scattered in small pieces.
Peggy wondered who went to all the trouble to send her a gun from an old Florida hate crime. Only through dumb luck and Finley’s genuine concern for her did she escape arrest, and possibly a conviction for a serious crime. Ironically, she was innocent of that one. She stared at the river and thought about what to do next. What if there was more evidence against her that would ultimately frame her for something else she didn’t do, or even worse, that she did do?
She yanked out her phone and pulled up her call log. She found the last incoming call, which had an 843-area code. She looked at the number and thought about the conversation with Leonard. He was involved with Bobby Touro, knew about the computer connection to the murders, and claimed to write the program behind the Snapchats that brought her to murder. And he somehow knew she was mixed up with Bobby Touro.
She thought about Finley and thumbed his number on his phone.
“Hi, Peg, glad you called,” Finley said after only one ring.
“I’ve got to leave for a while. I just wanted to thank you for stopping by and telling me about the warrant. I know you didn’t have to do that. And it’s okay if you were with Ms. Bourgeaux.”
He said, “I wasn’t, I mean, I was with her, but not in that way.”
“See you sometime, Fin. Just wanted to say bye.”
“Peggy—”
She disconnected the call. Finley was getting too close, caring too much for her to go on without succumbing to her own feelings for him. And nothing good would come from them being together. There was the search warrant, the murder investigation, and she’d murdered her brother. Put in a mental list, it all seemed unresolvable.
She said aloud to herself, “I’ve really got to get out of here.”
Peggy looked at the fast-moving water of the river and leaned into the driver’s s
eat of her police car. She put it in drive.
“Maybe Leonard can tell me about Clean.”
She typed Sullivan’s Island into her GPS and took her foot off the brake.
13
Peggy cruised Route 7 until she hit Route 22 and was out of New York in an hour. Relieved to leave the state, she felt at least one step ahead of the warrant at her house. In West Stockbridge, she picked up Interstate 90 and took the Massachusetts Turnpike across most of the state until it intersected with I-95. GPS routed her on I-95 for the bulk of her drive, and it would take her within a hundred miles of Charleston, South Carolina. With the route logistics sorted out, she set about the task of covering her hasty departure with plausible explanations.
She phoned the mayor and he picked up after the second ring.
“Hello, Peggy, how are you?”
“I’d like to take a few personal days after all. I think I’m going to take your advice and leave town for a couple days.”
The mayor said, “It’s a good plan, Peggy, and I commend you her for taking care of yourself. I’ll call Brady and arrange for cooperative police coverage for emergencies while you’re gone. Where do you think you’ll go?”
“I thought I’d head towards Florida where my mother lives,” she said, which was a little true. “Maybe I won’t make it all the way down there. Would it be possible to take the squad car?”
“Take it,” he said, “otherwise it’ll just be parked waiting for your return anyway. I’ll check to see what an appropriate cost per mile might be, and the town will take it out of your next paycheck.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s the least we can do. What’s new with the murder investigation? Is the FBI still taking the lead?”
Peggy said, “Agent Finley was last seen interrogating the New Orleans shooter’s wife, in the woods at night. They were seen together down at the river.”
“The river? What the hell were they doing at the river?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Peggy said.
“Well, regardless,” the mayor said with a contagious chuckle, “it’s wonderful news that Finley is on the case. Any chance he’ll solve it? What do you think?”