by Gary Parker
Rick thought a moment, then typed in the ID number of his dad’s private jet. That too failed. He remembered a locker number from his dad’s gym and tried it but without success. He recalled the name of his dad’s favorite camera and entered the letters but with no luck.
“I’m running out of options,” he said, trying to think.
“You played sports,” Shannon said. “Basketball, soccer. Your dad never missed a game, right?”
“So?”
“I know a guy who combines all his old jersey numbers and uses that for his passwords.”
Rick recalled his high school days—10 in basketball, 20 in soccer. “Worth a try, I suppose.” He hit the keyboard, the numbers entered but nothing happened. Then he tried the numbers backward. Again, no success. On the third try he typed in the name of his high school and the numbers forward, and the computer whirred and clicked to a new screen. Rick turned to Shannon.
“Did you already know that password?” he asked. “Tell me the truth.”
“No, it was just a guess, an educated one, and yes, I’ve done a good bit with computers over the years, but nothing more than that.”
He paused, not sure what to do next. “Who are you?” he finally asked.
“Look,” she diverted his question by pointing to the computer screen, to twenty-six characters printed in the center of the blue background. Xyz123abc91011rst456062419.
“It’s a code,” Rick said.
“What was your first clue, Sherlock?”
“And I know what it means this time, what it fits.”
Shannon faced him. “Really?”
“Yes, and I might tell you if you take back the Sherlock crack.”
Shannon smiled. “Okay, I’m sorry, you’re not Sherlock. But dazzle me with your knowledge anyway.”
“It’s a code for a panic room in my folks’ house.”
“Like in the movies? A room where people—rich people, I mean—hide when some catastrophe strikes?”
“That’s it—protection against home invasions, terrorist attacks, just in case, you know. Dad showed it to me years ago. It’s built off the sunroom in my mom and dad’s bedroom.”
“Why would your dad have a DVD with this code on it in his desk in Montana? And why give Luisa the key weeks ago to open the drawer?”
“He wanted me to find the DVD?”
“Definitely. And that means your dad feared something, someone. Suspected something might happen to him. Had he acted differently recently? Was he upset, nervous?”
“Not that I recall.”
“It’s obvious he wanted you to have this DVD if anything happened to him,” Shannon summarized. “But why?”
“Something in the panic room,” Rick said. “He’s pointing us to it.”
“Who else knows about the room?”
“Not sure, not too many people though. You’re thinking the police have already searched it, right?”
“Yeah, but I hope not. It might be our only chance to find out what’s going on.”
Rick bit his lip. “Maybe we should take this to the authorities, let them dig to the bottom of it.”
Shannon shook her head. “I don’t trust the police,” she said. “You shouldn’t either.”
“Would you care to tell me why?”
“Soon, Rick, I’ll tell you soon.”
“You tried to stop me when I ran from Solitude. Why the change in attitude?”
“I had one job to do then, another one now.”
“You wanted me to run, didn’t you?”
“No more questions about me, Rick.”
Rick started to argue, but then let it go. A woman like Shannon Bridge didn’t say what she didn’t want said. “You have to go to the room,” he offered. “During the funeral on Friday.”
“I know,” Shannon said. “I brought clothes for it.”
“What?”
“Clothes for the public reception—in the rental car; I didn’t know for sure, but thought I might need them.”
“You anticipated attending my dad’s funeral?”
“Just the public part. You got a problem with that?”
Rick took a long look into her bold eyes. “Who are you?” he asked once more.
“I think I will surprise you when I tell you,” she said. “I really do.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
Shannon glanced back at the computer and hit the Enter key, but nothing more popped up, so she shut down the DVD and placed it back in her bag. Rick watched her quietly, his mind busy. In normal times he probably wouldn’t have given her a second look. Although attractive, she certainly didn’t rival the women who usually draped his arms. But these weren’t normal times and she was anything but a normal woman, and though he disliked admitting it, even to himself, his affairs with starlets had brought him no more than momentary satisfaction. For most of his life that hadn’t mattered, but lately things had changed. Meaningless physical relationships with no personal attachment added up to wasted time and an empty life.
“We’ll need to make arrangements,” he said, standing and pacing by the bed. “Find a way to get you in and out safely, without arousing suspicions.”
“Luisa?” Shannon asked.
“I assume she’s home by now. Maybe she can help us.”
“Seems logical. She’s obviously devoted to you, willing to do what you ask.”
“I’ll call her, best to use your phone though, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. So what’s the scheme?”
Rick paused, considered his hastily conceived idea, then quickly outlined it for Shannon. “You game?” he asked when he finished.
“Only a thousand things could go wrong so . . . yes . . . sounds like a winner to me.”
“You don’t have to do it; totally up to you.”
“No, no, it’s the only option. Whatever your dad wanted you to find is somewhere in that panic room, and since you can’t go find it, I’m your girl.”
Rick stopped pacing and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Where will you stay until Friday?”
“I’ll get my own hotel room.” She smiled. “In a little better neighborhood.”
“That does not surprise me,” he said softly.
“I didn’t think it would.”
16
Thursday, midmorning
Gerald Grimes’s blood pressure jumped as he watched the video feed pouring into his computer. For two days he’d done little else but make phone calls, pressure friends, and cajole co-workers, begging them for access to any and all video feeds from monitors in Helena. A few had responded to his pleas and forwarded him footage from cameras around the city, and he’d spent hours checking through the files. To his surprise he’d discovered far more eyes in the sky than he’d ever imagined. For a city of fewer than 50,000 people, Helena kept exceptional vigil over its inhabitants. Every road in and out of the capital sported cameras at the city limit signs. All the official buildings—city hall, fire and police stations, hospital, schools, library—kept watch by monitor. Banks, quick markets, car washes—everywhere a citizen turned, someone put the act on film.
Grimes found the image he needed on a piece of video from an airport camera, a thick-bodied man on the expensive motorcycle about an hour and a half after the death of Steve Carson. Although the man’s helmet obscured his face, the tag showed an easily read number—YCZ496, state of Florida.
Pleased, Gerald copied the video onto his computer, forwarded another copy to his cell phone, leaned back, and took a deep breath. What a guy did for a woman! He wondered if he should call Shannon immediately or wait until he had more time to chat. Since he’d spent so much time on her offline project, he’d neglected his regular assignments, and if he called now he’d feel rushed to get back to them. Make her wait, he decided, at least until lunch. Then he’d call and give her the good news.
He still needed to track the tag number, of course. Find the owner of the bike that way, no more bother with tracking the tires. Once h
e managed that, Shannon’s gratitude would force her to go out with him. Not the best tactic to weasel a date, but a guy used the weapons at his disposal, right? A redheaded, short guy with splotchy skin and a tendency to go speechless around women didn’t get many chances with a lady like Shannon, and he didn’t plan to pass up the one that had fallen into his lap.
Gerald popped back up in his chair and his fingers punched his keyboard. With any luck at all, he might have the name of the motorcycle owner by lunch.
Charbeau’s phone buzzed and he took a long look at Tony Gonzalez before he took the call. “You’re a stubborn man,” he said to Gonzalez. “Been working on you off and on for thirty-six hours but got nothing to show for it.”
Gonzalez kept silent, so Charbeau gave up for a moment and switched on his phone.
“We have somebody sniffing around in Helena,” said his assistant in Wolf Creek. “A nerd in the crime lab, he’s connected to Shannon Bridge, the first responder to the 911 call the night of Carson’s death.”
Charbeau glanced at Gonzalez then walked out to the hallway. “She the same woman you caught nosing around outside the Carson retreat?”
“One and the same,” the aid said. “We visited her place after that, trashed things up a bit but found nothing suspicious so we backed off.”
“Where is she right now?”
“We don’t know. Like I said, we checked out her house, then dropped the tag on her.”
Charbeau rubbed his head, a migraine threatening to spread from the base of his skull. “Who’s the nerd in the crime lab?” he finally asked.
“Nobody really, a technician, but he’s made a lot of calls, looking for video in Helena. We think he might have found something.”
“What?”
The aid hesitated and Charbeau wished he could reach through the phone and strangle him. “What?” he bellowed. “I got no time to wait for you to pucker up your courage!”
“He found video of the motorcycle, shows the tag number.”
Charbeau’s headache subsided and he chuckled lightly. Only an amateur would allow someone to tail him through such an obvious tactic, and he was certainly no amateur. He’d taken precautions with the motorcycle records; like a coon doubling back on a pack of dogs, covering its tracks, hiding its scent. Still, he didn’t like it that someone was hunting him. Made him feel . . . unsteady, unprotected.
“What’s the dude’s name?” he asked.
“Gerald Grimes.”
“Does he have family—wife and children?”
“Nope, we already checked. People don’t marry as early as they once did.”
The man sounded quite pleased and Charbeau made a mental note to terminate him as soon as he no longer needed him. Cocky people made mistakes, and with so much at stake, a mistake meant disaster.
He kept his tone neutral as he finished the conversation. “Provide a solution to Mr. Grimes,” he said. “Before the sun sets. Can you do that for me?”
“No problem.”
“Then get ’er done.”
The man hung up and Charbeau moved back to the room where Tony Gonzalez remained in place, his head slumped, his eyes closed. Charbeau lifted Gonzalez’s head and cuffed him until he opened his bloodshot eyes. “Sorry we were so rudely interrupted,” he cooed, as if talking to a small child. “I was about to show you a sweet surprise. You like surprises, don’t you?”
Gonzalez said nothing, so Charbeau stepped away, punched a button by the door, and waited as a drape on the opposite wall peeled away to reveal a plasma screen behind it. “Take a look, Gonzalez,” Charbeau said, pointing to the screen. “It’s your momma in high definition. You see her there?”
Gonzalez’s eyes focused and Charbeau saw the recognition register in them. “Yes, Mr. Gonzalez, pal of Rick Carson. Your dear mother is close by, a guest of mine, shall we say. As you can see, she’s quite comfortable at this moment.”
The video showed Luisa in a leather chair, a blindfold over her eyes, her hands bound in her lap and her ankles shackled but otherwise in good shape. A lean, dark-skinned man in black pants and a white shirt stood beside her, as if waiting to take an order for dinner.
“So I’m giving you one more chance, Mr. Gonzalez,” Charbeau continued. “What do you know of Mr. Carson’s whereabouts?”
“Do I look like a GPS system?” Gonzalez barked.
Charbeau whacked him across the face.
“I don’t know anything,” Gonzalez panted. “Rick didn’t . . . confide in me. It’s the honest truth; let my momma go, she’s got nothing to do with this.”
Charbeau shook his head as if unhappy with a child. “Your momma’s pleasant situation ain’t necessarily permanent,” he growled.
Gonzalez licked his cracked lips and Charbeau moved to a pitcher on a nearby table, poured a glass of water, and touched it to Gonzalez’s mouth.
“Water,” Charbeau said as Gonzalez took a long drink. “And freedom for you and your sainted momma—all for a little information. I ain’t an unreasonable man. So I ask a final time. Where I can find Rick Carson?”
Gonzalez spit the water into Charbeau’s eyes, and Charbeau laughed and grabbed Gonzalez by the hair. “You’re full of vinegar.” Charbeau cackled. “I grant you that. But know this, brave guy. Your courage won’t do a thing to ease the pain your momma’s gone feel real soon. You sure you got nothing to say to me?”
Gonzalez shook his head and Charbeau sighed then pointed to the monitor and offered a thumbs-down sign. If Tony Gonzalez cared nothing about the health of his momma, then perhaps his momma would feel differently about her son.
“Silvio,” he called.
The dark-skinned man standing by Mrs. Gonzalez nodded at him.
“Mr. Gonzalez ain’t cooperating,” Charbeau said. “So we got to make other arrangements. Have you told Mrs. Gonzalez what we need?”
“Yes,” Silvio called. “But she seems to have swallowed her tongue.”
“Remove her blindfold and direct her attention to the monitor on the wall.”
Silvio obeyed and a few seconds later Luisa peered through the camera toward Charbeau and Tony.
“Antonio!” she called.
“You know nothing, Momma,” Tony called. “Tell them that.”
“I need to find Rick Carson,” Charbeau called. “But your son ain’t going along with me. You as stubborn as your boy?”
Luisa stared into her lap in silence so Charbeau pressed her. “I’m asking nicely one more time, Mrs. Gonzalez. But my patience is wearing thin. Tell me what you know of Carson or your son’s life expectancy is going to shorten up some. You comprehend my meaning here?”
Luisa said nothing, so Charbeau pulled his Glock from the holster under his arm and pressed it into Tony’s forehead. “I’d hate to make a scramble of your son’s brains,” he said firmly. “But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
Luisa started to sob.
“I know you want to protect your boy,” Charbeau said, soothingly. “And I got no real hankering to do him harm. Just a job to me, but I’m good at my job. So . . .”
She wailed louder, and Charbeau smiled then eased the Glock away from Tony’s skull. He had broken her. Once a momma started crying, her resistance ended. “It’s okay, Mrs. Gonzalez,” he said gently. “Tell me where I can find Carson, then you and your boy will go free.”
Her body trembling, Luisa started talking as large tears rolled down her cheeks.
His lunch spread on a cloth napkin on a wood bench beside him, Gerald Grimes sat on a bench in a park a couple of miles from the Helena state lab and pulled the plastic wrap off a hard-boiled egg. After the egg, he planned to eat his tuna sandwich. To top it off, he looked forward to the peanut butter candy bar he’d purchased on the way to the park—a tasty reward for a guy who seldom indulged in anything that contained processed sugar or chocolate.
But hey, he concluded, a guy needs a bonus every now and again—like today when his investigation into the mysterious motorcycle had yi
elded far more than he’d expected. Not that he had the name of a specific owner yet. But a company named GlobeFree, an offshore Bahamian entity, had purchased the bike and paid the license fees and taxes for it through the state of Florida.
A young couple strolled by hand in hand as Grimes finished his egg, then unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. His heart warmed as he watched the man and woman. Love, he thought; it made the world go round. Someday he’d find somebody—a woman who loved nature and hated television, a woman pretty enough to meet his mom but not so attractive that he’d ever need to feel jealous.
He thought of Shannon and knew she far surpassed his beauty standard. But a man needed to aim high, didn’t he? He’d call her right after he finished eating. Pleasing her pleased him and he felt confident that his discoveries would make her happy. And, with a few more days and a bit more research, who knew what he could uncover? Enough perhaps to answer all her questions and thereby earn the spot in her heart he so desperately sought.
The love-struck couple disappeared down the path as Grimes chewed the last of his sandwich, then opened his cell phone. A tease, he decided; he’d text Shannon he had some news but say nothing more. Make her want to hear from him instead of the other way around. Appear less needy, less eager to talk to her.
Grimes’s fingers composed the message on the tiny keyboard. Birds and squirrels played in nearby trees. Grimes hit the Send button and the message went to Shannon. Grimes unwrapped his candy bar and took a bite, then leaned against the bench, content with his efforts. Nothing stirred in the park. Shannon would accept his offer of dinner, he decided. She did care for him, he felt confident of that. Not yet in the manner that he wanted, but he could eventually change that. He picked up his phone again and almost called, but then hesitated. Let her wait a couple more minutes, he decided.
The bullet caught him in the left side of his neck, a single crack in the quiet afternoon the only thing announcing it. The candy bar fell to the grass and Grimes slumped over, his phone still in hand. His eyes opened, once, twice, then stared straight ahead. Another shot rang out, but it struck the bench a few inches over his head, splintering the wood.