Footprints of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #1)

by Tim Ellis

“Mercy Hebb wasn’t investigating the mafia, or money laundering, she was looking into missing children. These two documents were encrypted on her hard drive. If they are connected to the mafia, then she’d be wise to encrypt them. Why would she encrypt them otherwise? It’s probable that they’re unconnected to the missing children. We’ll keep hold of them just in case, but I don’t see how they help us at the moment.”

  “Okay,” Rae said, finishing off her potato skins.

  “You want dessert?” he asked her.

  “What I want, and what’s good for me, are two entirely different things. I’ll just pretend I had a dessert, and leave it at that.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I should do that, but where chocolate and ice cream are concerned, I have the willpower of a jellyfish.”

  He asked the waitress to bring him a portion of chocolate cola cake with dark-chocolate cookie ice cream and chocolate sauce.

  Rae ate most of it. She began with her finger, but ended up with the spoon from her coffee mug. The plate started in front of him, but ended up in front of her. He had two mouthfuls; she had ten. He tried to reclaim his plate, but the more he moved it back toward him, the more it shifted toward Rae. In the end, he capitulated.

  “I’m glad you didn’t want any dessert,” he said, licking the remains of the chocolate from his spoon.

  “So am I,” she said with a grin. “It would only have made me fat.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “What now?”

  “I think I’d better show my face at the hotel for a couple of hours. I live in that apartment for free because I’m on-site security. If I’m not doing that, then Allegre will want the apartment back.”

  “The bitch.”

  “She runs a tight operation, and she’s been good to me.”

  “Well, I don’t like her.”

  “We’ve still got Mercy Hebb’s address book and all those telephone numbers we added to it to check out. Is there a way . . . ?”

  “Yeah, they have software on the Internet, which allows you to search for people, telephone numbers, addresses, house prices – you name it, they’ve got it.”

  “I should be in a museum.”

  “The natural history museum.”

  “Thanks. So while I’m out doing –”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No, maybe not. Okay, after we’ve done the rounds of the hotel and grounds, you can find out who owns those numbers. Then we’ll plan our next move.” His lip curled up. “Allegre will get two on-site security people for the price of one.”

  “Well, there’s two of us staying in your apartment.”

  “Yeah. Also, we’ve still got that computer code on the Post-it Note.”

  “I wonder if the kid can tell us what it is. Should I ask her?”

  “Can’t do any harm, can it?”

  “Not unless somebody hacks into my emails and finds out who she is and where she lives.”

  “Is that likely?”

  Rae shrugged. “We don’t know who we’re dealing with yet. Apart from trying to kill everyone who’s connected with Mercy Hebb, they’ve been pretty resourceful so far, haven’t they?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “There are forums where you can ask questions, I’ll try one of those later.”

  “Good idea, keep it anonymous. Oh –” He pulled out the piece of paper from his pocket with the telephone number on it. “Here’s another number to check. In fact, check this one first.”

  “Why?”

  “It was in that man’s wallet you killed last night.”

  Rae held the piece of paper in her hand and stared at it. “Do the cops know you’ve got this?”

  “Not unless you’ve told them.”

  “What will I do when they lock you up?”

  “They’re not going to lock me up.”

  Rae had a point though. What would happen to her if something happened to him? He’d have to give that some thought.

  ***

  “Well, if it ain’t Mister sometimes-and-sometimes-not-on-site-security Gabriel and his –”

  “I hope you’re not gonna say –”

  “Guest.” Allegre said, and laughed like a Tasmanian hyena with a kangaroo carcass all to itself.

  “Take no notice of her,” Tom said to Rae.

  “That door we done replaced for you is gonna cost you a hundred and twenty dollars,” Allegre said.

  “You could put it through your insurance,” he suggested.

  Allegre tipped her straw hat back with a bony finger and raised a rheumy eye. “You think those slimy insurance thieves gonna give you the time of day when you tell them what happened? More’n like they’ll increase my premiums for having an on-site security person who ain’t never here and keeps prostitutes in his room.”

  “That’s it,’ Rae said. “I’m gonna slug her good and proper.”

  Tom had to hold her back. “No, you’re not.”

  Allegre cackled as if she had corrugated iron in her throat. “You should get yo’self some proper clothes if’n you want proper payin’ customers to come callin’.”

  “Come on,” he said to Rae. “You know she’s just saying those things to wind you up.”

  “It’s working.”

  Rae wore heavy, black, gothic eye make-up all round her eyes, and blood-red lipstick. She looked more like a zombie than a prostitute. Around her neck was a leather-studded choker. She wore a black-and-white bikini top, a short, black, pleated skirt, a pair of black socks that reached her knees, and her black Army boots.

  He’d hauled in his quota of prostitutes during his time on the force, and he couldn’t remember any of them looking like Rae.

  “You don’t look anything like a prostitute, and I’ve seen a few, believe me.”

  “That old bitch just gets to me.”

  “You do look a bit weird though.”

  “I take that as a compliment coming from a hundred-year-old man.”

  His lip curled up. “I’m glad.”

  “Fashion changes, ya know?”

  “I know, but if I walk downtown, I don’t see many women looking like you.”

  “No balls. What I’m wearing is on the edge.”

  “The edge of what?”

  “The edge of your imagination.”

  “Okay.”

  They reached his apartment. The new door had been fitted – a set of three keys hung from the lock inside. He gave one to Rae.

  “Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  “I see. I’ll get on with tracing those telephone numbers, shall I?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “And I’ll find a forum to ask about that computer code.”

  “Good idea.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Think.”

  “I suppose you’re going to ‘think’ in the horizontal position?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. What a good idea.”

  “Ya want to put some coffee on before ya start snoring?”

  “Sure.” Even though he had some cheap, old coffee beans, he filled the machine up with Blue Mountain. He didn’t mind sharing his expensive coffee with Rae.

  He left the bedroom door ajar and lay down fully-clothed on the bed. Afternoon siestas had become a habit. When the days were filled with emptiness and yearning, a doze in the afternoon was something to look forward to.

  Would Carrie come back to see him? Or was that her one and only visit? She’d saved his life, because he had to protect Butterfly and find the children. Why? Apart from the obvious answer, why was it important to her? Or had she been told to save him? If so, who had told her? And if he did manage to do what she’d asked – then what? Would he be allowed to join her? Those two men had been working for someone else, but who?

  He could probably lie here all afternoon asking himself questions that he had no answers to, but he needed to rest. The answers would come – s
ome of them anyway – sooner or later.

  Chapter Eight

  He was dreaming of happier times when the bed began moving. Feeling seasick, he opened his eyes.

  “Have you got nothing else better to do?”

  It was dark outside, but the light from the living room filtered in through the open door. Rae was sitting on the side of his bed using her arms to bounce up and down.

  “Your bed is a lot better than the one I’m sleeping on.”

  “That’s because your bed is a camp bed.”

  “And this one’s a double bed.”

  “For an old man who needs lots of space.”

  “Maybe we could take turns.”

  “Maybe you could go back to your own apartment and sleep in your own bed.”

  “And get killed?” She bounced some more. “I’ve done all those things.”

  He pushed Rae’s backside off the bed with his bare foot, sat up, and swiveled round. “I’ve got a mouth like the Nevada desert. Is there any coffee left?”

  “Sorry.”

  “No wonder you’re bouncing up and down on my bed.”

  They walked through into the living room. He disposed of the coffee filter and put a new one in the machine. He’d have to get some more ground coffee from the mall. The idea of running out filled him with dread.

  Once he’d drunk half a mug and filled up again he said, “Right, show me?”

  “That telephone number on the paper you gave me belongs to Oscar Gibson, who lives at 1967 De Haven Street in Lincolnville, and . . .”

  “Have you checked him out?”

  “He sells real estate. There’s nothing special about him.”

  “Background, age, education. Is he married? Has he got any children?”

  “Is that information important?”

  “I thought you wanted to be an investigative journalist.”

  “I do.”

  “You can never have too much information. Too little – yes – but never too much. At some point in your research, you get data saturation. That’s when the information keeps telling you the same things. Then it’s time to stop, but we’re not there yet.”

  “Let’s look.” She input his name into the search engine. “He’s thirty-three, graduated from Johns River State College, went straight into the real estate business and still is. Married Daisy Burke twelve years ago, and they have two children – Tangerine and Nectarine . . .” Rae giggled. “I guess they like oranges.”

  “Both girls I assume?”

  “Can you imagine a boy being called Nectarine?”

  “Neither to be honest. How old are they?”

  “Three and five.”

  “The next question is why the club-hammer killer had Mr. Gibson’s telephone number in his wallet?”

  “It doesn’t tell me that here.”

  “No . . . the one bit of information we do want is always somewhere we can’t get to it. Are you hungry?”

  “Mmmm.”

  He made a vegetable pasta with garlic bread, and then they began going through the people Rae had matched to the telephone numbers from Mercy Hebb’s address book.

  “Hey, you’re not a bad cook.”

  “I’ve had lots of practice.”

  “What happened to your wife?”

  “Died five years ago of cancer.”

  “It’s a bummer when the people you love die.”

  “What about your mum, what did she die of?

  “My father.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My father killed her.”

  “If that’s the case, how come he’s still a free man and a senator as well?”

  “This is what I remember, all right?”

  “All right.”

  “They were arguing – I heard them. She’d found something out about him and was threatening to go to the newspapers. He slapped her. She ran out of the house, got into her car, and drove away. The next morning, I was told she was dead. I never saw her again.”

  “Did the police investigate?”

  “There was nothing to investigate. She lost control of her sports car going round a bend, left the road, and smashed into a tree. Apparently, she was really drunk.”

  “What about the argument? And what had your mother found out about him?”

  Rae shrugged. “The argument was part of the investigation, of course, because that was the reason she ran out of the house in the first place, but the reason for the argument wasn’t relevant. The police concluded it was an accident, and that was it. He was a senator who had lost his beautiful wife prematurely, and he had an eleven year-old daughter to look after. Everybody felt sorry for him.”

  “Why do you say he killed her then?”

  “He hit her. He made her run out of the house that night to get away from him. If he hadn’t, she might still be alive today.”

  “I was beginning to think that you believed he’d actually killed her.”

  “I do.”

  “You mean you blame him for her death?”

  “If you like, but I heard him make a phone call after she’d left. That wasn’t in the police investigation. I didn’t hear who he was calling, but I sometimes wonder who he did call.”

  “And did you tell the police?”

  “I never spoke to them. He got me out of the way by sending me to grandma’s house in Palm Valley. I lived there until I went to college. I saw him a few times when he came to visit, but I tried not to be there when he was there. I hated him.”

  He didn’t know what to make of what she’d told him. It sounded like a straight-forward accident while driving under the influence. The traffic cops wouldn’t have pursued it. The fact that it was Senator Raeburn’s wife who had been killed would have meant that they’d have signed it off as an accident – after a fairly cursory examination of the crash site and a rudimentary investigation of the events leading up to the crash. He wondered what Mrs. Raeburn had found out about her husband, and who he had called when she left the house, but in the scheme of things, neither appeared to be relevant.

  “What about your daughters, where are they?” Rae asked.

  “They’re living their own lives. Misty lives in Philadelphia, and Sara lives in Grand Junction, Colorado.”

  “When was the last time you saw them?”

  “Are you writing my biography?”

  “I might be.”

  They ended up with a list of three people from Mercy Hebb’s address book that they planned to visit in the morning. Dulcie Carrick, Ophelia Andrews, and Elly Nolan. Each name had been highlighted using a yellow highlighter.

  Rae’s brow furrowed. “What about Oscar Gibson?”

  “If we drop by and ask him some questions, it’ll tip him off. At the moment, he doesn’t know that we know he’s connected to Lemontov. Also, one thing we haven’t considered is that Gibson might not be connected to what we’re investigating at all. Lemontov may very well have had his number for something entirely different.”

  “If that’s true, how will we know?”

  Tom’s face creased up. “We could follow him.” He wasn’t really keen on the idea of stake-outs. They were fraught with difficulties, and he liked his bed too much now.

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. I wish Harry were still alive. He could have got me Gibson’s telephone, bank and credit card records, and the details of his Internet activity.”

  “Ya know, I found an online forum about that computer code?”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Go on then.”

  “It’s an alphanumeric shellcode.”

  “That’s like saying it was an alien.”

  Rae laughed. “I think you would have spotted an alien. They’re green.”

  “Of course they are.”

  “A shellcode is a small piece of code that exploits software vulnerability.”

  “You’re speaking in an alien language now.”

  �
�The code is only a fragment, but if we had the full executable code and you downloaded it onto your computer, I could control your computer remotely. Somebody’s written this code to attack and control another computer. The code is like a spy – it hides inside another program.”

  “Why would Mercy Hebb have written something like that on a Post-it Note?”

  “I don’t think she wrote it. I think she copied it. From where, I don’t know.”

  “Can the people on the forum tell you who did write it? Or what it was for? Or where it was used?”

  “No, but what I was going to say is that there are guns-for-hire on the forum.”

  “I don’t think we need to shoot anybody else. You’re not getting gun-crazy, are you?”

  She smiled. “No, but you could use someone who could get you access to Oscar Gibson’s telephone, bank and credit card records, and tell you what he’s doing on the Internet.”

  “Ah, I see where you’re going . . . another Harry, but I’d have to pay?”

  “Yeah, they ain’t gonna do what you want for free.”

  “Okay. Following Gibson was going to be problematic anyway with me being on-site security here. How much will it cost me?”

  Rae shrugged. “I’ll see if I can find someone local who’s interested.”

  “You’re not going to –”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t say who we are, or what it’s about on the forum. I’ll just ask if there’s anyone in the St. Augustine area who wants to earn a tax-free lump sum.”

  “I’m not a millionaire, you know?”

  “I’ll negotiate, but they’ve got what you want, so it might be a bit steep.”

  Tom nodded. “Go on then, but don’t go above ten dollars.”

  Rae’s lip curled up. “Yeah right.” She navigated to the “security” forum – and keyed in the request on the new thread. “Now we wait,” she said closing down her tablet.

  “Wait?”

  “They’re not all sitting at their computers waiting for someone to come along and offer them a payday, ya know.” She went into the utility room and came back out again with a charger. “The tablet needs charging anyway.” She inserted one end of the lead into her tablet, placed the tablet on the kitchen worktop, and plugged the other end of the lead into a wall plug. “In the morning, we’ll have a few who’ll be interested, and we’ll go from there.”