by Emmy Grace
“Okay, then get me that last year of his records. Everything you can find.”
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Figured you might want cell phone records, but I’m no expert.”
Touché, pussycat.
“Yeah, get me those, too.”
“He had a security system for his basement. You want the door code?”
Fine. I’m impressed. And maybe a little scared.
I glance around me suspiciously, wondering if there’s any possible way I’m being watched.
“No, I didn’t bug your house. I just monitor the local security breach alerts. Mr. Ames’ was tripped a few days ago.”
“I don’t suppose you know who tripped it?”
“I’m not the all-seeing eye, lady.”
Could’ve fooled me.
“How about this? Just give me everything you’ve got and whatever you can find on Andrew Ames. Will that work?”
“It’s gonna cost ya.”
“How much?”
“I’ll send you the link for what you need to order. I’ll give you instructions after I send the data.”
What I need to order?
Instructions?
Who the heck is this kid?
“Okay. Let me give you my e-m—”
“Already have it. I’ll be in touch.”
And with that, the mysterious and obviously brilliant girl hangs up.
What is it with the people in this town?
7
Felonious is no joke. Fifteen minutes later, I get an innocuous-looking email that boasts a free airline ticket to anywhere in the continental United States for filling out a survey. Normally, I would delete something like that right off the bat, but the sender is listed as felon_us. Too close for me to ignore, so I open it. The only thing it says is AMES HIGH AND FLY AMERICAN.
Ames high instead of aim high. Most people would probably think it’s a typographical error in reference to the airline tickets.
Clever girl.
I click the attachment at the bottom of the page and a bunch of stuff starts happening on my screen. Strings of numbers and letters go scrolling by faster than I can even attempt to read them. Then the monitor goes blank. A few seconds later, a progress bar appears, bright red on a black-and-white, vertically-striped background. Reminds me of an old prison jumpsuit.
This Felonious chick really takes her life of crime seriously.
When the progress bar gets all the way across the page, images start flashing across my screen and then flying away to different folders that have appeared out of nowhere. They’re labeled FIN, CELL, SEC, and MISC. I don’t have to be a hacker to figure out what they mean.
After the last document gets dumped into its corresponding folder, two halves of a jail door, top and bottom, snap down over my desktop like two big, cyber jaws.
Then nothing.
I move my mouse. Click some buttons. Try to type. Nothing happens. My computer is completely locked up.
“What the heck, Felonious?” I say it out loud, knowing I’m alone, but then I glance around suspiciously. What if she answered me? What if she were keeping an eye on me?
That would just be too creepy.
Finally, a link appears. It’s to an online costume shop. Evidently, it’s located in Columbia and the retailer has agreed to deliver my purchase before the end of the day. I just have to confirm the card by clicking the order button. The card ending in 2219. The last four of my debit card.
I’m beginning to see how my new hacker friend came up with her screen name.
My finger hovers over the mouse button. The rational, cautious part of my brain tells me not to click until I know exactly what I’m getting into. I think we can all agree, though, that it’s only a teeny tiny part of my brain and I’ve ignored it for so many years, at this point, it’s more like the distant whisper of an annoying voice. My subconscious Urkel.
Needless to say, I ignore it. Again. I click the button without giving it one more second’s thought. Lucky, tenacious, and impulsive—it’s who I am. I just think the other traits didn’t make such a good nickname.
Next, the loud pop! of a cannon precedes a burst of confetti raining down my screen. I watch it fall until another link appears. It’s to a PDF of instructions. And when I read through them, I don’t know whether to laugh or to go hide.
“Have you seen my sheep?” I ask the man who passes by at the corner of Main and Broad streets. His wide eyes scan me from head to toe, but he says nothing. Doesn’t even pause. Just keeps on walking.
I wait for the next pedestrian. I spot a woman walking toward me. Per the instructions, I wait until she’s right upon me and clack my staff against the sidewalk and step out in front of her. “Have you seen my sheep?”
The woman looks like Dolly with her long, blonde hair and over-the-top cleavage (and I do mean over the top). She gives me an odd look, then makes an arc around me, giving me an extra wide berth.
I make a face at her receding back. “At least I’m wearing a costume,” I mutter.
I step back to my position and glance up and down the streets, waiting for my next marks. A woman and her daughter come out of the general store and start off down the street. The daughter looks to be about ten or eleven, and they’re chatting animatedly as they make their way toward me. When they’re close enough, I step out in front of them and smack my stick on the ground. I feel a little like Gandalf but with frilly white bloomers and a hat that ties under my chin. “Have you seen my sheep?”
This one is actually kind of funny. The daughter makes a high-pitched peep (fitting, considering my outfit), and the mother gets this horrified expression on her face, like I just asked if I could taste her child’s liver. She tucks the girl under her arm and rushes by me. I think they might even be holding their breath.
I have to give the lady credit for putting her body between her kid and the crazy person dressed like Little Bo Peep, assaulting the ground with her staff and asking every passerby if they’ve seen her sheep. Brave momma.
It only took me about fifteen minutes of this to realize what Miss Haddy meant when she said Felonious traded in a “different” way. Harmless, she said. Ha! I doubt it’s harmless to my reputation. If everyone in Salty Springs didn’t think I had a screw loose before, they certainly will now.
“Has a different way of trading,” I grumble.
Different I’d say! Of all the prices I might’ve expected to pay for sensitive information, public humiliation was nowhere on the list. Only a teenager would think of something like this. She probably gets a kick out of watching me do my best impersonation of an escaped mental patient.
And I have no doubt she’s watching. Otherwise, why do it?
I spin in a slow circle, looking for evidence of a street camera or security camera outside a storefront. But this is Salty Springs, population 1,642. I doubt there’s a security camera in the entire town. Unless Felonious herself put it up, in which case I’ll probably never find it.
Maybe she’s watching in person. From afar.
I make a second spin, this time looking for anyone in the near vicinity who could be the mysterious Felonious. I check in windows and behind glass doors, at the edges of buildings and peeking out from around parked cars. Unfortunately, the only live body I see is a familiar one.
Tall and masculine and incredibly irritating.
I let out a sigh and rest my weight on my staff as Liam Dunning makes his way toward me on the sidewalk. I have plenty of time to observe his swagger. He wears it as well as he does that dark intensity. He might as well be in a suit of cocky, aloof armor. But the closer he gets, the more I can see something else in his smoky eyes. I’ve seen a glimpse of it once or twice now, and it’s always brief. Unless I’m mistaken, which could well be the case, it’s amusement.
I get the feeling that, in Liam’s life, humor is sort of like Halley’s Comet—rare and short-lived, but also brilliant and beautiful.
&nb
sp; It’s also funny how it doesn’t emerge until he gets to witness my most embarrassing moments. Figures that that would be what dislodges the stick from his butt.
I wait for him to reach me. “Go ahead,” I say when he does. “Laugh it up.”
“Do I even want to know what you’re doing?”
“Looking for my sheep?”
“Have you checked your bedroom? I think there might be a lot of missing livestock in there.”
“Ha. Ha.” I guess I should be glad he hasn’t demanded that I return Gumbo.
“Needed Felonious’ help, huh?”
My eyes widen. “You know her?”
“I know of her. I don’t think anyone actually knows who she is. Believe it or not, that girl is on a few of the most wanted hacker lists.”
“And she lives here?”
“What better place to hide out than in obscurity? You can see a stranger coming from a mile away.”
“Is that what you’re doing, too? Hiding out in obscurity after what happened?”
I don’t know what gets into my tongue sometimes. It’s like it gets a bee in its bonnet and just starts flapping before it consults with my brain.
However, now that the question is out…
I watch Liam for his response. First, the flicker of his brows into a fleeting frown. This one is more of confusion than his usual aggravation. Next, his eyes narrow. And then there’s a pause. A tense pause, right before understanding kicks in.
Then the thunderclouds roll in.
“You’ve been looking into me?” His words are low. Dangerous. When he looks like this, it’s easy for me to see how he could be an intimidating FBI agent. A lesser woman with a lesser constitution might soil herself. But that lesser woman is not me. It takes more than a glare from Liam Dunning to make me pee. Minimum, it takes fright at ten thousand feet or mild electrocution.
“No, of course not,” I’m quick to say. “I just…stumbled upon something and I…I…”
Stupid tongue!
He continues to glower. “Miss Haddy.”
I rush to cover for her. “She wasn’t being ugly or anything. She cares about you. Evidently, the whole town does.”
Liam growls, like literally growls, and trudges away, leaving me to chase after him.
“Don’t be mad. She didn’t mean any harm.”
“She never does.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me.”
He whirls on me like a shark turning on his prey. I stop so fast I almost fall backward. Lucky for me, my crooked staff saves me. “It isn’t a secret, but it’s not fodder for the gossips either.”
“I-I know.” Liam turns around again and stalks off. This time, I don’t follow him. I just make an offer to his quickly receding back. “Maybe I could help you find him.”
That stops him. “Find who?”
“The man who killed her.”
Liam swings around at me a second time. His long legs eat up the short distance until he’s right on top of me, nose to nose. A towering inferno of tightly controlled rage. “I don’t need help finding him. I’m the one who killed her,” he spits and then stomps away for good.
I watch him go.
You could knock me over with a feather.
8
Felonious finally called my cell after two and a half hours of humiliating role-play as Little Bo Peep to tell me that I could go. She said the files would be unlocked. I rushed straight home, stripped that awful costume off, and set to work on digging through Andrew Ames’ life.
His financial records are nothing unexpected. In fact, the absolute lack of anything out of the ordinary or special makes me feel depressed for the guy all over again. I mean, my financials probably look like a split between a college kid who stole his parents’ credit card and a starving artist. I only get paid once a month, so I buy whatever I want and need for the first three weeks, and then I buy animal food and eat mostly peanut butter for the fourth one. I’m not saying it’s the smartest, most adult way to operate, but I’ve got plenty of time to start thinking about retirement. Already I dread sitting in a stuffy room at the bank, listening to some guy in a bowtie drone on and on about IRAs and SEP accounts.
Not today, Satan!
I jot down a couple of mildly (very mildly) interesting deviations. Four expenditures that weren’t part of Ames’ regular routine. One appears to be at a restaurant, one at a flower shop. The third and fourth happened within two days of each other and are both listed to the same account—just a man’s name, Barry Sleighbaugh.
It takes all of two minutes on Google to figure out that the payment to Barry Sleighbaugh was innocent. Barry is a dentist. That’s why the charge wasn’t more regular, yet it occurred twice in a short period of time. Andrew must’ve had a dental issue. Otherwise, dental visits are semi-annual at most.
Or less if you’re like me and hate going to the dentist.
I didn’t mind when I was younger, but Regina had a boyfriend in college who was afraid of the dentist. He was a big, burly guy. Probably weighed two-fifty at least, yet he was terrified of the dentist. I may or may not have teased him mercilessly about it.
Okay, fine. I teased him about it. But I got what I deserved. He’s having the last laugh now. Well, he would be if he knew. They broke up after a couple of months, but since then, I’ve developed an increasingly intense dislike of the dentist. And by dislike, I mean paralyzing fear.
That, boys and girls, is what they call karma.
With a shudder, I cross out Barry’s name on my list. No way he did it. If any violence would’ve erupted in that relationship, it likely would’ve been the dentist’s murder we’d be investigating.
I look up the restaurant, which is one town over, and jot down the address. Same with the flower shop. I also write down Andrew’s home address and the security code from the info Felonious sent. Lastly, I give my animals some treats and then head for the door.
As I open the storm door, I feel a nudge against the back of my leg. I turn to find Gumbo staring up at me, piggling his tail. Piggling is what I call it when my little pig wags his little pig tail.
“I won’t be gone too long, little man,” I tell him. He snorts and nudges my leg again. He looks me right in the eye, his gaze very serious and very intelligent, tips his head, and gives me three short snuffles. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me. I don’t speak pig yet. Are you hungry?” I look over at his bowl. He ate, but he didn’t clean it out completely, so he must not be hungry. I check the water dish, too. It’s two-thirds full. I know he’s been outside, because I heard him running through the dog door. I think it makes him nervous to go through it, because he walks slowly toward it and then darts through so fast it makes the flap slap back and forth in the opening. I can tell by listening which animal is coming and going, so I know it’s not that.
I bend down and scratch around his ears. He leans into my palm and nuzzles. Then he lifts his head and those dark eyes pour into mine again. My heart dissolves into a puddle of goo. I lean down and whisper, “You play dirty.”
I open the coat closet by the door and rummage through the contents on the floor until I find what I’m looking for. A harness. I got it for Mr. Jingles, but he refuses to wear it, so when I walk him, he goes on a leash. But Gumbo might not be so stubborn.
When I turn, he’s smiling up at me (I swear he smiles), piggling all over the place. When I hold out the harness to slip over his head, he practically jumps into it. I strap him in, easy peasy. When I stand, Gumbo takes off toward the door.
“Oh, you’re good, pig. You’re good,” I tell him as I lock up behind us.
“Let’s go to his house first, shall we? I have the perfect excuse. I’m just out walking my pig.” I smile down at Gumbo. His little porky feet are just flying over the ground. “I have someone to talk to now, too. Not that I probably should be talking to a pig,” I mumble, keeping my voice low.
I don’t walk all the way down Main Street to get to Ames’ pla
ce. I take a more circuitous route through the residential area. Less chance of being noticed.
Of course, I am walking a pig, so inconspicuousness might be out of the question.
I nod at an older couple walking their dog. All three slow down and watch us as we pass.
When Gumbo and I reach the accountant’s house, we walk on by and then make a right at the stop sign and another right to go into the alley that runs behind the row of houses. That’s another good thing about small, older towns. The houses aren’t right on top of each other. Most of the places that I’ve seen around town have spacious front yards and an alley out back. Just like Ames does.
Gumbo and I stroll casually along the narrow passageway until we reach the right house. Then, equally casually, like I’m not doing anything I’m not supposed to be doing, we walk over and I open the back screen door to knock. I’m smiling, checking out the trees just in case anyone happens to look out. They’ll probably (hopefully) just think I have the wrong house and will go away when no one answers the door.
With my body shielding me from view, I set to work on picking the lock. It opens easily.
Seriously, a burglar would have a field day in Salty Springs.
I open the door a crack. I glance left and right before grabbing Gumbo and darting inside. Quickly, I close the door behind us.
It takes my eyes a minute to adjust and see that I’m standing in the kitchen. From here, I have a view into both the living and dining rooms. Those rooms are dark, though. Every shade within sight is pulled down. Either Andrew Ames sure wasn’t fond of light or someone did some poking around in here, too, just like they did in his office.
As Gumbo and I make our way through the first floor, I notice that everything seems neat and orderly. I doubt the rooms have been tossed. Usually it’s more obvious.
At least it is on television.
There’s a door beneath the stairs that go up. I assume either a coat closet or the basement door. I crack it open and know immediately which it is. There’s another door behind the first one. It’s newer and has a keypad above the lever to open it.