“So what does that imply?”
“One of two things,” he said, looking a little uncomfortable. “Either someone is cruising your gated ’hood—a person who can grab passwords and whatnot out of the air and also tunnel back through a firewall to change folder and drive assignations.”
“How hard would that be?”
“Reasonably hard.”
“So what’s the or?”
“Physical access to your laptop. It’s by far the simplest explanation. Sending e-mail is a formality. Your browser will have saved a cookie, which means ordering off Amazon is easy, too, unless you log out every time, which no one does. And renaming folders and disks is far more explicable if someone’s just sitting at the machine.”
“There’s only one person who’d have access to my laptop,” I said. “My wife.”
Kevin didn’t say anything. He just looked a little more uncomfortable.
As we walked out of the coffeehouse, someone called out Kevin’s name. We turned together to see Cassandra the ice cream girl coming along the sidewalk.
“Oh my lord,” she said. “What cataclysmic online dating accident brought you two together?”
“Hey, Cass,” Kevin mumbled. In the presence of a Real Live Girl his geekiness trebled in intensity. “What’s up?”
“Well, you know, you know,” she said, pausing to light a cigarette, her hands cupping around it in the process, as if to protect against a strong wind. “Still bathing in the glory of having kicked your ass.”
I presumably had the air of a human question mark. The girl blew out a mouthful of smoke and smiled. I watched the smoke dissipate into the hot air.
“Me and Kevs—or Lord Kevinley of Benjamin’s Estate—lately hang in the same gaming crowd,” she explained. “We were both at a meatspace meet-up last night for some convivial Dark Ages fragging fun. Lady Cassandra of the Eternal Lurid Flame—that would be me—proved far too tight a strategist for this gentleman and his rat-punk accomplices.”
“ ‘Meatspace’?”
She held up her hands to indicate the universe in general. “This hot, smelly place that some do call ‘The Real World’ and in which we are constrained to hang out. At least some of the time.”
Kevin chuckled appreciatively, and I realized he didn’t mind losing at whatever this dumb game was, at least not to this girl—and that her presence in the much-maligned Real World probably had a lot to do with him playing the game in the first place.
“Gotta head,” Cassandra said. “Kevs, see you in the chatterverse, stat. Mr. Moore, I’ll be dishing the frozen cow squirt later, should you wish to drop by.”
Kevin and I watched her go, like a cool breeze departed, and then got into my baking car.
I dropped him back at the main Shore premises up at Ocean View, then drove thoughtfully back down to The Breakers. As I parked I saw that Karren was sitting at a table outside the deli. She glanced at me when I got out of the car, and then back down at her hands.
I walked over. “You okay?”
“Kind of. The police are on their way.”
“Why?”
“They think David Warner might be dead.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They arrived twenty minutes later. I was still sitting with Karren, whose take on the situation boiled down to: it wasn’t like we’d really known the guy, but, you know, wow, freaky shit. My own take was more complicated. So complicated, in fact, that I was glad to have Karren’s to listen to instead. The police car finally came around the loop and parked in front of our office. Deputy Hallam got out the driver’s side, Sheriff Barclay the other. I’d often thought, somewhat dismissively, that if you wanted to cast a typical good old boy sheriff, Barclay would be perfect. Over six feet tall, big hands, broad shouldered, that gut. As he walked over toward our table, however, he didn’t look like someone you should dismiss in any way at all.
“Morning, Mr. Moore. And you’re Karren White?”
We agreed that was who we were.
“You want to take this into your office?”
I shook my head. “Here’s good.” I didn’t want to be taken inside. It would have felt as if I had something to hide from general view.
Barclay gestured at Hallam, who pulled over a couple of chairs. “You know why we’re here?”
“Karren told me. So . . . what’s happened, exactly?”
“We knew that, we wouldn’t be here. Or we’d be here differently.”
Karren spoke sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” the sheriff said. “I don’t think either of you has anything at all to do with David Warner’s disappearance. I mean, from what Ms. White told me, you were hoping to sell his house.”
“That’s correct,” I said.
“Right now we’re not sure what happened, or when. Two hours ago we entered the Warner property. We discovered evidence that he may have been abducted, and could also have been either injured or even killed.”
“ ‘Evidence’?”
“The digital record from his security system has been removed. CSI found traces of blood in the kitchen, and something that looks like a bullet impact site. An initial workup says the blood is likely Warner’s, but until we get confirmation, we’re freewheeling. My deputy and I are trying to fill some gaps in the meantime.”
“Okay,” I said. “Deputy Hallam was pretty thorough this morning, though. I don’t know if there’s anything I can add.”
Karren turned to look at me. “I got a visit before I came into work,” I told her, trying to make it sound on a level with a visit from the pool cleaner. “I didn’t mention it because . . . well, the guy had been missing less than a day.”
She nodded, but I could see her thinking: Maybe so—but nonetheless, you brought Warner up the minute I walked into the office. Which is odd, right?
She looked at her watch. “I just realized I have an appointment,” she said to Barclay. “Okay if I head back to the office, make a call to postpone it?”
“Sure,” the sheriff said. “We’ll drop by when we’re done speaking with Mr. Moore.”
“Here’s the thing,” he went on, when Karren had gone. He put a sheet of paper on the table. It looked like a blown-up photocopy of a page from a notebook, with additional annotations in a firm hand. “I’ve got a record of what you told my deputy, and we’ve got an issue to resolve with some of that information.”
“What kind of issue?”
“You were supposed to meet with Mr. Warner on Tuesday evening, right? He didn’t show, and rearranged through his assistant. That’s what you said.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Okay. Well, she says that didn’t happen.”
“What? Which part?”
“Any of it. We spoke with, uh, Melania Gilkyson, an hour ago. She denies speaking with you on Tuesday evening or at any other time.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said angrily, pulling my phone out. “It’s right here in my call record.”
“Thing is,” the cop said, “that’s not Ms. Gilkyson’s number.”
“Well, that’s the number she called me on. And I called her back on it, and got hold of her at”—I checked the record—“eight sixteen.”
“Not according to her.”
“But . . . why would she say that?”
“That’s what we’re wondering,” Barclay said.
“Hold on a moment,” I snapped. “I’m sure I can straighten this out.” I jabbed my thumb onto the number. The two cops watched impassively. The number rang, and rang. And rang. “No reply,” I said, killing the call. “Not going to voice mail, either.”
“That’s what we found,” Barclay said. “Ms. Gilkyson says she’s never seen the number before. She showed us their records and it doesn’t show up on them, either. She also assures us that her boss had no intention of selling his house. Mr. Warner’s sister confirms that he hadn’t mentioned it. He built that place himself, when he came back to live in the area. There’s no
evidence at all that he was looking to divest himself of the property.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You talked to Karren on the phone, right? You know she met with him over the sale, too?”
“That’s what she told us, yes.”
“So that’s evidence, right? Maybe he just hadn’t gotten round to informing the women in his life. His sister and his assistant.”
“Except you say the latter was responsible for setting up the meeting with you on Tuesday night. To which you admit, however, that he didn’t show up.”
“It doesn’t make a lot of sense, I know.”
The cops just looked at me.
I stood up when they left to go talk to Karren in the office. I remained standing after they were inside. I wasn’t sure where to go or what to do.
Just then a man in a jacket, black jeans, and a white T-shirt walked around from the direction of the highway. He was looking casually up at the condos, and it looked altogether possible that he was in the market to buy one. Normally I would have been all over the possibility—going up to the guy, introducing myself.
This time I turned away. I didn’t feel like a Realtor right now. I felt like a man whose problems had just gotten far more complicated in ways he didn’t yet comprehend.
David Warner was AWOL.
Fact.
Until the conversation I’d just had, part of my brain had been fighting the reality of this information. Okay, someone tells you someone’s missing—but that doesn’t mean they’re actually missing, right? Karren could have got it wrong, or been . . . Yeah, okay, of course it was bullshit, but I’d been in denial, anyhow. That fight was over. Once you’ve sat with policemen while they not only confirm that a person’s vanished, but make it clear they don’t like anomalies in the information you’ve given, the reality kicks in. It kicks especially hard when one of the cops is the sheriff with whom you’ve exchanged pleasantries on a number of social/civic occasions.
Less than three hours ago Warner had been my best—my only—explanation for the photos on my laptop, patchy though the who, when, and why of the scenario had been. Now I had nothing. Warner could still have been behind the pictures, but I was barred from talking to him, either for confirmation or to find out why he’d done it. His assistant had turned into a dead end, too.
Then, like a bolt from the blue, I realized that was okay.
I froze for a moment as my thoughts tried to catch up with each other and swim in the same direction. Then my feet were in motion, taking me down the path that led around the restaurant terrace and past the pool toward the sand.
If Warner was the guy behind the pictures, it was likely that he wasn’t going to be screwing with me anymore. Whatever game he’d been playing was over—especially if it turned out he really was dead. He was not around to either confirm or deny anything I might say to the only person it concerned, apart from me—Stephanie. I had a culprit, in other words. It didn’t matter if I understood why he’d done it. It didn’t actually even matter if he had done it.
I just had to paint a picture that made it look that way.
I stopped before I stepped out onto the sand. There was still no reply to any of my earlier SMS messages to Steph. I decided to call her instead. I got transferred to voice mail, however. I didn’t know what message to leave, so I ended the call. It was almost three o’clock. That was a long meeting. A very long time for the two of us to be completely out of contact, too. I thought about it, and then selected Steph’s office number.
Her assistant, Jake, answered.
“Oh, Billiam,” he sang. “How wonderful. And how are you on this so beautiful day?”
“Peachy,” I said, knowing Jake wasn’t on drugs or anything but just always talked this way. “I wanted to check what time Steph’s meeting ends.”
“Meeting? Oh, the biggie with Maxwinn Saunders.”
“Right,” I said. “She going to be done soon? Seems kind of an epic.”
“Done? Honey, that was dusted hours ago.”
“It was?”
“Lord, yes. They rolled out of there at eleven thirty. Happy smiling faces all around.”
“And then?”
“And then what, my love?”
“Where did she go? Stephanie. Is she in another meeting now?”
“Oh, no. Not one I know about anyway. She left the office straight afterward, and . . . da-da-da . . . let me check . . . nope, Miss Stephanie got white space in the diary. Nothing the whole rest of day, lucky thing. You want me to take a message, case she returns?”
“Just tell her I rang, would you?”
“No.”
“What?”
He laughed. “Yes, of course I will, silly. You have a gorgeous afternoon.”
Two text messages sent, and by the sound of it I’d sent the second one after the meeting had finished. No response. She wasn’t picking up her phone, either—at least not to me. I wasn’t liking the look of this.
Steph and I love each other. A lot. She is, if I’m honest, the only person whose company I genuinely prefer to being on my own. In addition to this, we’re on the same team and facing in the same direction. She even started working at the magazine in the first place because she knew it would get us access to an upper circle of locals—the art and gallery crowd, and those with the money to be their patrons—who it would have been hard to tap into otherwise. We send the occasional shot across each other’s bows if someone’s getting excessively cranky, but there’s never been anything anywhere near as blunt as ignoring the other’s attempts to communicate for half a day. It was like having half of my mind lopped off. I hadn’t worked out how I was going to spin Warner’s role in the photographs, but I had a strong sense it would be a good idea to get Steph and me around the same table as soon as possible.
I called her cell again. This time I left a message, cheery, saying I’d gotten to the bottom of something and would like a chat at her earliest convenience. I should have asked Jake if Sukey, Steph’s key ally on the magazine, was out of the office, too. If so, I could have sold myself on the idea that they were off somewhere sinking glasses of celebratory Pinot, having successfully achieved . . . whatever the damned meeting had been about.
I couldn’t face talking to him again, though, not least because I knew it would look weird that I couldn’t geolocate my own wife.
I called the house instead. It rang several times, and I was about to give up when I heard it pick up.
“Oh, hon, there you are,” I said, trying to sound confident and upbeat instead of just terribly relieved. “You’re a hard lady to pin down today. Didn’t you get my text messages?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” I said. “I know, I know. Last night was weird. But I promise I was telling the truth. And more stuff’s happened today. I think I’ve worked out what’s going on.”
She still said nothing, though I could hear her breathing. “Come on, Steph,” I said, now merely trying not to sound like I was pleading. “Let’s talk about this properly, ’kay? I’ll come home. Or we could meet. Get a coffee or something, grab a beer. Sounds like your meeting went well, right? Let’s celebrate.”
Silence. I fought the urge to fill the gap with more words, knowing that I needed her to speak next, to commit to dealing with me, to reopening lines of communication that I hadn’t realized had become so fragile. But after what must have been a full thirty seconds, I couldn’t keep it up. “Steph? Come on, honey. Talk to me.”
There was silence for another few seconds, and then a female voice said a single word, very clearly.
“Modified.”
The voice was not my wife’s. There was a soft laugh, and then I heard the phone being put down.
PART II
PRESENT TENSE
There are heroes in evil as well as in good.
—FRANÇOIS DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD, Réflexions
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It’s the afternoons that drag.
In the morning y
ou wake up, and bang—there you are, back in the world: and Hazel has gotten used to doing this in a bed with no one in it but her. She opens her eyes and stares up at the ceiling while she waits for reality to settle upon her. It is not a reality of her choosing, but it seldom is, despite the promises of the self-improvement industry. She’s read her share of the earnest books available on bereavement and guilt. None has helped, regardless of the hectoring assurances of whichever airbrushed robot graces the cover. They’re all the same. Snake-oil sellers in a hope industry.
She eventually gets up and puts on a robe—Phil liked the AC ferociously high, and it’s a habit she hasn’t gotten out of, and never will—and pads into the living room. At one end is the kitchen. It’s small, so as not to dominate the space (and also because The Breakers has two restaurants that would appreciate your custom, so why make cooking any more attractive a proposition than necessary?). She brews a cup of Earl Grey tea. She showers. She dresses. She fixes her makeup and hair.
On her way out of the condo she glances at the calendar on the inside of the door. This tells her how long it is until the next chunk of her life begins, before she goes to stay with one or other child. This morning the calendar tells her that it is three weeks until she goes to Klara’s house over in Jupiter, and gets to be grandma (and free babysitter, and occasionally tolerated advice giver) for a spell.
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days.
She spends her mornings wandering around a mall or taking a look in the (only, and not great) downtown bookstore, occasionally lunching with a friend. These are people she has met in the last few years, since Phil died and her life stopped being wrapped up in what she now thinks of as “the club.” Her friends are kind to her, and they meet up and talk and laugh, and Hazel finds it hard to understand why the world nonetheless feels as though someone had turned the volume down to zero. Maybe, she thinks, precisely because of the club years. Their entertainments go on, she supposes, but without her, like so much else. It is one thing to know the world will continue when you’re gone, another to observe it doing so while you’re still around.
Killer Move Page 10