He hadn't checked how the video was doing, so Paul grabbed his phone. When he saw the numbers, it was a mix of satisfying and horrifying. He rolled out of bed, hopped in the shower, and thought about what needed to be done.
He needed to get back to San Francisco and work. The drive was way too long, so he decided he would charter a plane out of Cheyenne. He would need to get rid of the gun first, though.
Once dressed, Paul cleaned the gun. After he reassembled it, he decided it might be easier to dispose of it in pieces. He took it apart again and put the pieces in a bag. There wasn't much that he needed to take with him back to California, so he put a few things in a bag, hid the two remaining hand guns in the outbuilding with the back hoe, and drove the BMW to the airport.
It was late afternoon when he arrived at the office. Paul had been running his wholly owned billion-dollar company and its subsidiaries from day one. For all but the first five years, Eric Stackton had been his second in command. Eric was not a programming genius and couldn't invent anything new, but he was a brilliant manager. Paul had built up a deep loathing of Eric, mainly because he was so well liked.
Paul was too smart to get rid of someone who was integral to the success of his companies but was loathe to give up the top spot. Deep in his heart, though, he knew the company would be better served with Eric at the helm.
When his secretary brought him the coffee he had requested, he said, "Can you ask Eric to come down for a chat?"
Two minutes later Eric walked in and said, "What can I do for you, Paul?"
There was an air of uneasiness and Paul wanted to let it hang there for a while just to enjoy himself, but instead smiled and said, "Eric, you've done a fantastic job of running this company despite my efforts. I can't imagine how much more profitable we would have been if I had handed you the keys five years ago."
Eric's confused look was a nice bit of compensation.
"I've decided to step down as CEO and let you run the show."
"You have? Thanks, but I sort of always got the impression..."
"I know, my fragile ego gets in the way of what's best for the company. In truth, I've known since the first week you took over as the Senior VP that you were better at running my companies than I was...am. So, I'd like to apologize for being so difficult and, if you are willing, make the announcement that you will be taking over starting immediately."
"Are you sick?"
Paul smiled because he was quite sure that if he was ever caught that was what people would say. "No, I feel great. Call it a mid-life crisis, but I took a break, went to Europe, and realized that the whole point of making a pile of money was to live. I just bought a ranch in Wyoming."
"I heard something about that. I didn't know you were an outdoors type."
"I didn't either, but I thought I'd give it a try. It's actually a nice property, and there are worse ways to invest one's money than real estate."
"Are you still going to be involved at all?"
"I may want to work on some R&D ideas I have, but if I never have to attend a meeting about tax filings, inventory control, quarterly reports, or any of that other crap, I won't shed a tear."
"I've always admired you, and it has been an honor working for you even if I might have rubbed you the wrong way."
"That is more a reflection on me than you," Paul said as he stood up and shook Eric's hand. "As for your new salary, I think a twenty percent raise over what you've been making should be fair. In a year, if we're both happy with how things are going, I'll give you a piece of the company. How does that sound?"
Eric was truly speechless. All he could muster was a stunned thank you.
"I have one favor, which I admit seems rather rude of me, but could you figure out the best way to announce your promotion? I am sure I'd mess it up, and there really should be a party. Also, I want it to be clear I'm not dying or something like that. I just want to live life."
"I can handle it."
"And don't be cheap about it, either, okay?"
Eric had never seen this side of Paul, but he wasn't going to look a gift CEO position in the mouth. "Maybe we should throw the party in your honor?"
"God, no, this is about you. Put a team together if it makes you uncomfortable, but I want this done ASAP because frankly my mind is already exploring the possibilities of life without the daily deluge of emails."
"Will do, boss. Thanks again. My wife may aggressively thank you with baked goods. There will likely be some tearful hugs, too. There isn't a thing I can do to stop her, but, other than that, it should be a nice party."
"I can live with that," Paul said and shook Eric's hand one more time.
#
"Agent Granville, do you have the transcripts of the interviews yet?"
"No, they haven't come through, but I can send another text if you like."
"It's okay," Chavez said as he poured himself a sprite over ice. The hotel only had Coke products. He preferred Mountain Dew, but these were the types of sacrifices a veteran agent had to make. "Actually, would you mind running down the street to that grocery?"
"I'd be happy to. What do you need?"
"Pringles and Mountain Dew," he said, handing her a card. "Don't forget the receipt and get yourself whatever you want."
Twenty minutes later Nancy returned wearing a white cowboy hat and carrying a bag of groceries. "Don't worry; I didn't charge the hat. What do you think?"
"It is ridiculous."
"It is fantastic in ways you will never understand. I love it!"
"I'll admit to having little fashion sense, so you may be right. Pringles?"
She handed him the canister and the six-pack of Mountain Dew.
"Thanks. I don't know if I told you but tracing the boy's phone was a great idea."
She smiled then opened a bag of little powdered donuts and a package of napkins. Nancy spread two napkins on her desk and a third one on her lap. She popped a donut into her mouth, wiped her fingers, and said, "Nummy. Would you like one?"
"I've not ever been on a case where my partner said 'nummy.'"
She shook the bag in his direction. He took two.
"I should probably try to be a little more professional, but it is hard. They don't let us analysts talk much, so I guess I'm not very practiced at proper G-men etiquette."
"Gee, woman," he said, drawing out the "g."
"That sounded like it might have been dangerously close to a joke."
"I've been told my sense of humor needs some finetuning."
"I tend to be an easy laugh. I'm prone to laughing, and it sometimes develops into a snort. This is another thing I need to work on."
"Agent Granville, you don't need to work on anything. Just keep thinking about the case and coming up with clever ideas. You'll be fine."
"A termite walks into a bar and asks, 'Is the bar tender here? Get it?'"
"No."
"Termites eat wood," she said with a gleeful dual hand gesture.
"I'm not sure that is the sort of help I need."
Nancy shrugged, "Suit yourself, but my uncle has thousands of them. Oh wait, the transcript is here. Check your inbox."
"You mind printing me a copy?"
"Not at all."
Chavez took the pages and his Mountain Dew and sat on the couch. The suite had two adjoining rooms; his had a larger table and couch. He started to read while Nancy banged on her keyboard at the speed of light. He didn't know what she had thought of but, two seconds after she had handed him the transcript, she had made an audible "eureka moment" sound and set her hat on the chair next to hers.
There wasn't anything interesting to be learned from the family whose car had the phone taped to it. They had been staying at the hotel for a week and had bags full of crap they had bought at various touristy venues. He didn't think there was any way they could have squeezed a murder into their schedule. Also, they were really stupid. Chavez doubted they owned a computer, had ever been to YouTube, or knew how to take and upload a video.<
br />
Chavez put the reports down and grabbed his own laptop. He pulled up Agent Nancy Granville's file because he knew nothing about her beyond her analyst abilities. She grew up in Maryland, attended the University of Virginia then got her masters in Computer Forensics from Johns Hopkins. All her reviews were complimentary. That was about it. He made a note to add something about her idea for tracking the phone. Somebody would have probably suggested it eventually, but she was first, and it turned out to be on the money.
He went to Twitter and searched for Nancy Granville but without finding any results. "Hey, Granville, I thought you said you were on Twitter."
"I am."
"I just searched for your name. I don't see any Nancy Granville's."
"Are you on Twitter?"
"No."
"It is a wonderful place; always a lot going on."
"So how do I find you?"
"Well, I am incognito. I don't do much tweeting myself, but I have a handle, 'Ecocandle.' I made up this fictitious guy, and he tweets sometimes. Mostly, though, I just watch various hashtags."
"What's a hashtag?"
"It's the pound sign, and people use it as a shorthand to group tweets. Here, let me show you."
"Why Ecocandle?"
"I bought a candle that was made from soybean wax earlier that day. It smelled like chocolate cake."
"So, why do you follow hashtags?"
"Okay, let's put in one," she said, pulling up Tweetdeck on her laptop. "Who's your favorite football team?"
"The Redskins."
She typed #Redskins and hit enter. The column filled with praise and slander over the fair results thus far that season. "Okay, I'm not following any of these people, but they are all talking about the same thing. Eventually, if this guy or gal kills again, people will name him and that will be what we watch. So, if he becomes the video killer," she said and typed in the two words following a pound sign, "this is what we will get."
"There isn't anything."
"I know. Let's try YouTube Killer." She typed it in with the same results. "The point is, eventually there will be a community talking about this video. Actually, there probably already is. We just need to find it."
"Is that what you are so furiously working on?"
"Sort of. I'm writing a program to search the Internet for clues about what our killer is going to be named. I figure that he or she will follow their fame and maybe even comment. If they do it enough, and if...sadly...the killings continue, we may be able to see some patterns emerge."
"I've got a lot to learn about social media. I think I've found the right teacher, thanks...may I have another donut?"
Nancy set the bag in front of him with a smile.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Chapter Thirty
The new day felt like the first day of summer vacation. Eric would handle everything from now on. All Paul had to do was attend the party, which was scheduled two weeks out. He had nothing but time.
His idle hands danced across the keyboard and found that Mitch still hadn't used any credit cards or logged onto any social sites. He had plenty of items on his to do list, though, and said to Sergeant Pepsi, "Are you ready to get to work?"
Paul logged into Mitch's Facebook account and spent a couple of hours reading the timelines of his friends. Mitch knew people all over the world and, up until the last month, had been an avid leaver of comments on the minutia his friends liked to share. It was obvious that he was closer to some than others, and Paul continued to craft a vision of Mitch's world.
Foursquare posted regular check-ins at two sandwich shops and three Chinese restaurants on Mitch's timeline. Every restaurant he had eaten at in the last year seemed to be mentioned with some sort of comment. Then he saw the lunch.
There it was: the moment he had seen that stunning woman...with Mitch. He had her name and had figured out where she worked but hadn't decided what his next move would be until now. A visit to the gallery where she worked was in order.
Paul preferred the BMW but, since it was still in Wyoming, he decided on the Aston Martin DB9. He turned the key, and the engine roared. The check engine light came on. "Fuck."
"Siri, call Dave the Mechanic," he said. He waited until he heard Dave pick up then said, "Hey, Dave, this is Paul. You have any time to look at my check engine light?"
"On the BMW?"
"No, the DB9."
"Sure, I can work you in now if you want."
"I'll be right there."
Paul pulled out and started the thirty-minute drive to his mechanic's shop. It had taken him half his adult life to find a mechanic that he trusted. Dave was a good guy. The first good guy he had run across who turned wrenches.
He had half a dozen painful memories of getting ripped off both before and after he had money. Each time it made him furious. Dave was different. He had towed Paul's car back to his shop in the middle of the night almost twelve years ago. Paul had been at a meeting and had left with plans to drive all night to another meeting in L.A. that was scheduled for first thing in the morning, but the alternator had gone bad.
Paul was in a slight panic, and Dave had said he thought he had the part and would be happy to stay and fix it. When it was done and Dave had handed him the bill, Paul couldn't believe it. There wasn't any "emergency" charge or double time, just the cost of the part, some very reasonable labor, and twenty bucks for towing. Paul hadn't trusted anyone else since.
He still thought most mechanics were crooks and that Dave was a very rare exception. Most of the bastards that worked on cars knew that their customers were in no position to question their work or do anything about it if they felt wronged. It gave Paul an idea. The rest of the drive he considered the possibilities.
Paul pulled into Dave's shop, and he came out smiling.
Paul asked, "How's it going?"
"Business is good. How about you?"
"I'm sort of retired and loving it."
"Congrats. Now what is the problem?"
"My check engine light is on and, while I'm sure it is important to check the engine, my main concern is how annoying it is."
Dave laughed. "Often it is the O2 sensor. When was the last time you put gas in the car?"
"It's been a while. I try to keep it full, but I've mostly been driving the Beemer."
"Pop the lid to the gas tank. On this model, sometimes it is as simple as the gas cap coming lose." Dave took off the cap, wiped it with his shop rag, put it back on securely, and said, "Okay, try it now."
Paul started the car. The light was off. "That is fantastic. What do I owe you?"
"It's on the house. Just promise me that someday you'll bring in this beauty for a problem that requires me to give it a test drive."
"Done."
Paul forgot about going to the gallery and went shopping for supplies instead.
#
The days in Alaska had been long and sweet. They had seen some bears and a moose, eaten food that was beyond description, and grown closer. At least, that was how Mitch felt. In the morning they would return to the world.
She sat on the floor of the cabin with her back to him. Mitch rubbed her shoulders and neck. "How's that?" he asked, pulling back her hair and whispering into her neck with a kiss.
She said, "Purrrrr"
"Did you think about what I had planned after I left you in San Francisco?"
"I figured you had no idea."
He ran his fingers up the side of her head, through her hair, and said, "You have a fine and perceptive brain in that pretty, little head of yours."
"So, you think I'm pretty."
"I do."
"Really? You seemed more interested in photographing that moose than me."
He had taken quite a few pictures of her, but they were always when she wasn't looking. He felt like a thief when he did. "I took a few - actually more than you knew."
"You did? When?"
He grabbed one of the cameras and scrolled through to a section where she had been feed
ing Cookie. "I like this one of you and Cookie."
"That is a good picture, but why didn't you ever ask me to pose?"
"I guess it is because, well, you've modeled, and I thought it might be crossing a boundary."
"How so?"
"I guess it seems silly."
"It really does."
"May I take your picture now?"
"No, the lighting's terrible," she said with a wink.
"See! You are used to working with professionals. I'm a hobby photographer at best. That is why I didn't..."
She laughed, spun around, and pulled off her shirt. "I'm teasing you," she said and gave him a long kiss. "I'll model for you any time."
Mitch pulled her on top of him on the couch and looked into her eyes. "You've got me figured out haven't you?"
"I'd be willing to play poker with you if that's what you mean."
"I would crush you at Texas Hold'em."
"Didn't you say the same thing about Scrabble?"
"I take poker very seriously."
"And you don't take words seriously?"
Mitch smiled, "Do you even know how to play Hold'em?"
"No, but were we really talking about poker?"
"I suppose we weren't."
"What about me?"
"What about you?"
"Have you got me figured out?"
"Have you ever been figured out?"
"Not yet. Is it really so difficult?" she asked, laying her head on his chest.
"You like to snuggle."
"True. What else?"
"You like to learn and explore."
"Two for two. Keep going?"
"I'm sure I could reel off some more obvious answers, but all of that is on the surface. It isn't what makes you tic as they say."
"Who says that?"
"Clock makers."
She laughed, kissed him, and said, "You've figured out how to make me laugh. That counts, too."
"You don't really give clues."
"You want clues?"
"Is that so wrong?"
"It might make it too easy. That wouldn't be any fun, would it?"
"You figured me out pretty easily."
"I know, but I'm good at this."
It seemed he was on the precipice of ordinary. How many had been here before, certain they knew the way to her heart, only to wander off course and slide into a ravine of boring and predictable? He didn't know the answer, but he suspected that she was quite content to wait for the one who could figure her out.
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