A long, narrow driveway led up to the attached garage on the right side of the house. As expected, the driveway was empty. I parked my car and approached the front door. A small pile of local newspapers was strewn across the yard, surrounded by dead brown leaves that had abandoned the branches on the trees overhead. I kept to the sidewalk and flipped through my keyring looking for the key Jane had given me months ago when we’d first exchanged them. The idea was that it would make things easier during our collaboration, and it had. It would also come in handy today.
Except, as it turned out, I didn’t need Jane’s key. The door to Posh Pit stood open. Odd, I thought.
I placed my white leather glove on the door and pushed.
“Vonda?” I called. There was no answer. I walked through Posh Pit to the back door. It, too, was unlocked, but there appeared to be no one here.
I returned to the studio portion of the building and sat behind Jane’s desk. The studio looked like it was in use. A vase of purply-gray roses sat on the corner of the desk. Jane’s Mondrian calendar was open to September. A white takeout coffee cup with Paxton’s logo on it sat on the corner of the desk, and a recycled paper coffee cup holder sat inside the trash can under an accumulation of balled up yellow paper.
I hadn’t thought through how to explain to Vonda why I’d come to Posh Pit, but her absence only solved one problem. If Jane’s computer had been hacked like the rest of us, any attempt to work would be thwarted.
I switched on Jane’s monitor and PC. The background, hex color #3399FF to match the blue Jane had used throughout the rest of the interior, glowed softly. Most people had a fair number of files saved to their desktops even if they backed up files elsewhere. On Jane’s desktop, there was only one file folder, and it was marked “V-Day.”
My memory flashed to what I knew about Jane. Not her decorating tastes or the jobs she’d applied for, not the posh vintage suits she wore or the signature color palette she used throughout her business. Her divorce from her overbearing husband Gerry Rose—which had taken place on Valentine’s Day. Were these copies of her divorce papers? That had been eight months ago, before we’d met. Jane hadn’t struck me as the sort of person who wanted to keep those files so accessible that she saved them to her desktop, especially when no other files were treated with the same level of importance.
Knowing full well that I was about to violate the privacy of a former friend, I clicked the folder. Inside was a file with my name on it, and inside that file were my files. The very same files that had been on my computer—and then missing from my computer.
It wasn’t strange for Jane to have accessed my files. We’d set up a shared folder on cloud storage for the ease of collaboration. But these weren’t in cloud storage. They were saved to her computer.
It took me a moment to realize there were far more files in her “Night” folder than we’d created. It took another moment to realize why the files I saw were so familiar, and it came from something Nasty had said when she explained how the personality virus worked. The virus duplicated the files on a computer and created a mirror image.
I was looking at a mirror image of my hard drive. And with alarm bells clanging in my head, the one thing I never considered became insanely obvious.
Jane Strong, recently murdered in the bathrooms of the DIDI offices at Republic Tower, was the person who had unleashed the computer virus on all other parties involved.
NINETEEN
I backed out of the copied computer files. I couldn’t ignore the fact that Jane was behind the hackings of multiple businesses around town. I didn’t know why, but that why might have been what had gotten her killed. Except the timing didn’t make sense. The personality virus had been launched on my computer after she’d died. Had she hacked others before me? And one of them found out it was her and killed her? And if so, where were their files?
Before I could stop to think about what I was doing, I opened her browser and copied my files into the cloud storage we shared. I closed the windows and shut off her computer. As I was about to leave, I considered the open front door. The unlocked back door. The absence of Vonda.
Someone had been here. I glanced down at the terrazzo tiled floor. I’d closed the front door behind me, but a puddle of water had collected inside. Whoever had been here had been here recently.
Avoiding Detective Henning at this stage was reckless.
I pulled out my phone to call him. But first, I stood in the center of the room and made a video while slowly turning in a circle. It was a trick I’d incorporated in decorating jobs. Sometimes having a video of a room in the pre-renovation or mid-renovation stage could help me identify something that seemed out of place or if I were headed in the right direction. I made two full rotations while filming the room, just to make sure I got everything, and then switched to my keypad and called Detective Henning. “This is Madison Night,” I said. “I’m at Jane Strong’s house. The front door was open when I arrived, but nobody is here.”
I heard tapping on a keyboard, and then the detective spoke. “The only address we have on Ms. Strong is Posh Pit in Vickery Place.”
“Yes, that’s it. She lives here. Lived. It’s her home and her business.”
“I’m on my way,” he said and then disconnected.
There was no doubt that making that phone call had been the right thing, but I wasn’t used to making phone calls like that to a cop I didn’t know. Tex would have told me to leave, or to stay, or to do—or not do—something. But what now? I’d entered easily because the front door was open, and I’d gone so far as to use Jane’s computer. In terms of evidence—
I was still wearing my gloves. There would be no evidence of what I’d touched or where I’d gone. Henning never had to know I’d been inside.
I waited in my car. I’d done nothing illegal. The downpour had stopped temporarily, but the color of the sky indicated the rain would be back before long.
And it did. The rain started back up about a minute later. I leaned back against the seats, watching fat droplets aggressively pelt the windshield. The world outside of my car faded to dull gray, a bland color that would never be used in the world of mid-century decorating. I closed my eyes and focused on the white noise of drops falling around me, but despite my desire for peace, my mind would not shut down.
I would never have the opportunity to ask Jane about the motivation behind sending that nasty email, or to give us enough time to one day put it all in the rearview mirror of life and become friends again. There would be no water under the bridge for Jane and me.
And when I thought about it like that, I saw things differently. The email had come from Jane’s computer. The virus had come from Jane’s computer. Maybe she’d been trying to distance herself from me, not because she’d been that offended by my actions, but for another reason. Maybe Jane had known she was in danger. And maybe, just maybe, she’d thought she could handle that danger herself. I’d certainly thought the very same thing about myself on more than one occasion.
And then it hit me, the person who Jane trusted more than anybody else. Vonda Quinn, her beleaguered right hand. Who had control of her computer, who had the keys to Posh Pit, and who knew about the email. Vonda had been in Jane’s inner circle far longer than I had. But was I just grasping at straws? What possible reason could Vonda have for wanting to murder her boss?
The sounds of the rain drowned out all other exterior noises, which was why the knock on my window scared me as much as it did. I opened my eyes and looked out. A figure in plastic rain gear over a topcoat stood outside my car under an umbrella. I rolled the hand crank of my car window about a foot and recognized Detective Henning.
“Detective,” I said.
“Ms. Night,” he replied. “I wasn’t sure if I’d find you here.”
“I assumed you’d want me to wait.”
He nodded. The wind shifted the rain, and I watched
the now-diagonal drops pummel Henning’s clear plastic poncho. He removed his hat and shook a buildup of water from the plastic covering and then put it back on. “I’d like to ask you a couple more questions. Will you stick around?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m happy to cooperate.”
He nodded again and then headed toward the front door. I rolled up my window and called Effie.
“Madison!” she said. “I’m so glad you called me. Everybody is looking for you. What is going on?”
I wasn’t yet sure it was a good idea to talk about what I’d seen on Jane’s computer. I turned my back on Posh Pit and Detective Henning and focused on the conversation.
“After that greeting, I’d say that should be my question. Who’s looking for me?”
“That detective was here. And Kip Bledsoe stopped by to turn over a set of keys to our old apartment building. He said the owner accepted your bid without any questions. And Nasty brought me a check, and the florist delivered a dozen roses, and the detective came by again—”
“Who sent me roses?” I asked. It was the least important part of Effie’s rundown of the day’s activities, but I’d already known or expected the other information.
“I don’t know. Did you make your decision? Can I open the card? Ohmigod, this is so exciting. I hope you chose Hudson!”
This was getting out of hand. And when I thought about what might be written on that card, the only thing I was certain of was that I wanted to be the first (maybe only) one to read it. “Effie, I’m going to be tied up for the rest of the day. Do me a favor? Drop the roses off at Thelma Johnson’s house. You can leave them on the porch if I’m not there.”
“Okay,” she said. The disappointment was evident in her voice.
We rounded out the conversation with a dictated list of what Effie needed to acquire before we could start working on the apartment building. Nasty’s check, though completely unexpected, would make a big difference in our timetable. “We’re going to need a lot of paint. Six gallons per apartment. Eleven apartments, so that’s sixty-six gallons of paint and thirty-three gallons of primer.”
“Hold on,” Effie said. There was a klunk! And then she was back. “Sorry, dropped the receiver. You really need a speaker phone, Madison.”
“I like my donut phone just fine. Call Mitchell at Paintin’ Place and have him start mixing the colors.” I stared at the water beating on the windshield and did the math. “We’re going to use the four colors I endorsed for him. Get started priming and painting eleven of the units. Leave the front left one untouched.”
“Why?” Effie corrected.
“I’m going to convert it into a clubroom for residents to use. That’s going to involve some demolition.” I wiped the condensation off the inside window and looked at the front door. There was no sign of the detective, but an unexpected stream of red water running next to the white siding of the building caught my eye. “Tell you what. I’ll text you a shopping list.”
“Sure, Boss,” Effie said.
We hung up. I tapped out a list and sent it to Effie, and then rolled the window crank down and looked at the house. Initially I thought the water appeared red from the reflection of the window boxes, but that didn’t make sense.
I opened the car door and ran to the overhang. As I shielded my eyes from the sheet of rain, I had a clear path of vision of the red stream coming from the opposite side of the building. While it was possible that there were window boxes there as well, I couldn’t ignore the sense of unease. I stepped gently on the uneven wet soil, with one hand on the building, until I reached the other side.
And as it turned out, my fears were accurate. On the far side of the building, laying in a gully of mulch now saturated with inconvenient late September rains tinged with blood, was the body of Jane’s assistant, Vonda Quinn.
TWENTY
I dropped onto the wet ground next to Vonda and pressed my fingers into her neck. There was a pulse! Faint, but present. But before I could feel relief, a dark, red substance transferred onto my hand. I lifted Vonda’s head from the ground and found the wound behind her right ear. As the water dripped down from the gutter, it rushed past her, washing her blood away with it. I pulled off my now wet blazer and draped it over her head. “Detective!” I yelled. The shower drowned out my voice. “Detective Henning!”
“Ms. Night.”
I turned around. Henning stood a few feet behind me. He quickly took in the body in front of me and then pulled me out of the way and dropped down next to Vonda. He pulled a white handkerchief out of the pocket of his coat and pressed it into Vonda’s head to staunch the bleeding. With his other hand he checked her pulse like I did and then pulled out his phone and called for help.
Slowly, I backed away from both Vonda and Henning. My loafer sank into the wet ground and my footing was unstable. I almost lost my balance twice, wrenching my body and sending pain shooting through my formerly injured knee.
“Ms. Night, do not leave,” Henning said. It was less request than command.
I nodded once. Vonda’s body told me so many things I didn’t want to know. She’d been struck on the head, just like Jane. Was it by the same person?
I waited in my car. A flood of uniformed officers and other emergency personnel arrived at Posh Pit. Their rehearsed management of the crime scene was only mildly impeded by the rain.
Detective Henning approached the driver’s side window of my car. I cracked the window. “Considering the circumstances, I’m going to need you to come with me to the stationhouse,” he said.
“The circumstances…” I repeated, hoping he’d elaborate.
“Ms. Night, there are a few too many questions surrounding your relationship to Ms. Strong and Ms. Quinn. I’d like you to come with me so we can try to get some answers.”
“I have my car. I’d be happy to follow.”
The detective looked over my shoulder. “You’re parked in.”
I looked behind me. The narrow driveway was filled with emergency vehicles, police cars, and the detective’s sedan parked. “I’d prefer if you rode with me,” he added.
In that moment, I knew my circumstances were dire. “Sure,” I said. “Let me get my handbag and lock up first.” I rolled up the window and turned away from the detective. I felt trapped though I’d done nothing wrong. I sent a quick text to Effie asking her to get help moving my car back to Mad for Mod and then scooped my bag from the passenger-side floor mat and locked up. Henning had remained close to the car—a precaution in case I tried to get away? I forced a smile to my face and followed him to his sedan. He unlocked the back door and I climbed in.
Nothing about the circumstance felt friendly.
The door slammed. I tried to open it but couldn’t. A barrier was in place between the front and back seats. Henning could pretend this was a technicality all he wanted, but in the span of five minutes, he’d made it clear that I had no choices in the foreseeable future.
I was silent on the drive to the police station. Henning hadn’t said I was under arrest or in custody. He hadn’t read me my rights. That meant something. It meant that, while he may have strong suspicions about my involvement in his case, strong enough to detain me, he didn’t have the support of a judge or a warrant. He was inconveniencing me, which was well within the scope of his job as the investigating officer of a homicide, but unless he had concrete evidence against me, he could only inconvenience me for so long.
We arrived at the downtown Dallas police station. Henning parked and got out of the car and unlocked my door. I climbed out. I was thoroughly wet, thanks to removing my blazer to protect Vonda’s body. The activity surrounding the new crime scene at Posh Pit had distracted me, but right now, I was cold to my core.
Henning led me through electronically controlled gates that were attached to fences topped with curly razor wire. We entered heavy steel doors that locked behind us.
The interior of the police station was filled with officers in uniforms and men and women in suits. Curious glances came our way. I scanned faces quickly, hoping to read from their expressions what they were thinking about me.
They don’t call it cop face for nothing.
A constant level of noise bounced off the walls and floor, crackling of police radios and arguments from rooms not visible. A man in an orange jumpsuit with CONVICT stenciled on the back in black letters mopped the floor by the outside of a small jail cell. I’d been to the Lakewood Police Department to visit with Tex numerous times and it had never felt like this. My senses were heightened, and the loss of my freedoms was palpable.
“Ms. Night,” Henning said. “Officer Doyle will sign you in and hold onto your personal items.” He nodded toward a fortyish woman behind a counter.
“Is that necessary?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Alrighty-then. I handed my purse to the woman. She set it in a metal basket and pulled out a form. We went through a lightning round of name, address, and occupation before she took my purse and asked me to sign the form. The font was too small to make out without my reading glasses but the line for my signature was easy to spot.
“Detective Henning,” she called out. “I’m all done.”
Henning approached us and took a plastic package from Officer Doyle. With the slightest pressure on the back of my arm, he directed me down a hallway into a small, white room. Two chairs were facing each other next to a four-foot table. Henning set a stack of files on the chair closer to the door and I lowered myself into the other one. Even with the illusion of choice, there was none. He tore open the plastic package, pulled out a blanket, and handed it to me. I was too cold to pretend not to want it.
“Ms. Night,” Henning started. “I know you aren’t a stranger to police procedure. Do you understand why you’re here?”
“I understand you want to talk to me about Jane Strong. I’ve been nothing but cooperative since I found her body. I’m happy to answer any lingering questions, but I’ve already told you everything I know.”
LOVER COME HACK Page 13