by Tim Ellis
He checked the wall clock. It was five to midnight. “I suppose it’s time for bed now.”
Rae shuffled her feet. “I don’t suppose . . .?”
“Make sure you lock the utility room door,” he said, and walked to the bathroom.
***
Saturday, September 15
“It’s no good looking at me like that, Mabel,” he said.
It was quarter to six. He’d opened his eyes and found Mabel staring at him. Normally, he would have slid his hand under the pillow to find his Smith & Wesson, but Carrie had told him in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t do that anymore. He interlocked his fingers behind his head and wondered if Carrie would appear if he did put the muzzle under his chin and pulled the trigger. He could have a proper conversation with her then, but he wasn’t in the business of tricking her. If she wanted to come and talk to him, then she would. If she didn’t . . . well, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about that. Instead, he had to talk to the resident ghost.
“She’ll stay as long as she stays . . . what more can I say? Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it you who said I was doing a good thing helping Gretchen Hebb? Yes, I see you’ve conveniently forgotten that little nugget of information. I know that she dresses funny, but that’s the type of clothes young people wear these days. And yes, she’s a bit weird in other areas as well, but underneath, she’s really a good person.”
“Do you really think so?”
Rae was propping up the door frame in a T-shirt and boxer shorts.
“What I think is that you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.”
“Which brings me to my other question: who the hell were ya talking to?”
“Let me formally introduce you to Mabel. It’s her apartment; we’re just guests. Mabel, say hello to Butterfly.”
“I don’t see anybody.”
“Of course you don’t, but I do.”
He told her Mabel’s story.
“How sad,” she said. “Hello, Mabel.”
Mabel moved back to the window to wait for her husband to return from his fishing trip.
“Mabel says ‘hello’ back.”
He got up, put his dressing gown on, and went to the toilet. On his way to the kitchen, he noticed that Rae had climbed into his bed and gone back to sleep. He sighed. It was like having another daughter.
And talking of daughters, he still had to phone Misty and Sara. Misty was on Eastern time – the same as he was, but Sara was on Mountain time – two hours behind. It was only just after six on a Saturday morning – four o’clock in Grand Junction. Maybe he should give them a couple more hours to wake up.
He made more coffee, and then sat on a stool with his elbows on the kitchen counter, nursing the steaming mug. It was the mug he’d been given as part of a welcome pack when he’d attended an FBI conference about fifteen years ago. It was a bit of a giveaway though, because it had FBI in big letters on the side.
This was the third day since Gretchen Hebb had knocked on his door and asked him to find her daughter. How was he doing? Well, two people were dead. He’d fallen out with Mona but acquired a new partner; had his door smashed down; got on the wrong side of Allegre; and seen Carrie at last. It was like he’d never retired. Welcome back to the world, Tom Gabriel!
So, today they had to see the three people from Mercy Hebb’s address book . . . and what was that shellcode all about? Why had Mercy had it on a Post-it Note? Was it even connected to the missing children? Maybe if Rae could find someone from her forum to get the information on Oscar Gibson, they could eliminate him from the investigation.
In the back of his mind, there was another thought process running in parallel to the one he was trying to concentrate on. The two men who had killed Harry, and who had also tried to kill them, weren’t acting on their own. They were following instructions, but whose? Could Oscar Gibson be the person pulling the strings? Why would a real-estate agent want them dead? In fact, why would a killer have Gibson’s phone number in his wallet?
He’d better do some studying as well. The PI compliance examination was at ten thirty on Monday morning. Turning up with an empty head was as bad as not turning up at all.
Three days ago, he’d led an uncomplicated life. Now, his life was getting very complicated.
He glanced at the clock – seven thirty – picked up the phone, and pressed the speed dial for Misty.
A man answered. It was Curtis Polk – Misty’s husband. Tom didn’t like him, and the feeling was mutual.
“It’s Tom. Is Misty there?”
He heard him shout, “It’s your dad,” and then there was a clunk as the phone was dropped onto a surface. There was no attempt at conversation between them – they had history.
Misty had appeared at the house one time with a black eye and a swollen lip. He could imagine what a bull felt like seeing that old red rag fluttering in the breeze. Misty had pleaded with him not to do anything, but Carrie knew better than to try and stop him. He’d gone to the hardware store where Curtis worked, waited until he came out for a smoke, and beat the living shit out of him.
“You ever touch my daughter again, then the next time I come for you, I’ll have a gun in my hand. Are we clear?”
Curtis had nodded.
It wasn’t long afterward that they’d moved to Philly.
“Hello, dad. Is something wrong?”
“Does there have to be something wrong that I can’t call my eldest daughter?”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“Your mother told me I had to ring you and Sara.”
“I thought there must be some cataclysmic event for why you’d called. So, you’ve seen mum?”
“She popped in for a chat.”
“I bet she stopped you from killing yourself.”
“You always did know far too much for your own good. How are things?”
“Good. What about you?”
“I’m working on a case again.”
“I’m glad.”
“How are you really? You know what I mean?”
“Everything’s fine, dad. Curtis got a promotion. They made him store manager.”
“Great. And the kids?”
“You don’t even remember their names, do you?”
He gave a short laugh. “Of course I do.” He didn’t. They were called something like Barney and Dino because Curtis liked the Flintstones – the moron. “Hey, there’s a couple up here who’ve named their two daughters Tangerine and Nectarine.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m not trying to say anything. You already know what I think.”
“Yes, I do. So, was there anything else?”
“I don’t suppose so.”
“Thanks for ringing then. Look after yourself, dad.”
“And –” but the call had already ended.
Carrie was willing to bite her tongue so that she could see her daughters and grandchildren, but he wasn’t. He told it like it was and paid the price.
He rang Sara next.
A tired “hello” was followed by a yawn.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Every time, dad. You should ring in the evening.”
“I just thought I’d ring to catch up.”
“No you didn’t. The only time you ring is when something has happened.”
“Nothing’s happened.”
“You’ve seen mum, haven’t you?”
“Am I so transparent?”
“Like a window.”
Sara was the youngest – daddy’s girl, but she had still flown the nest.
“Well, now that you’re awake, how are things?”
“Mum told you to ring, didn’t she?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re the worst liar in the world.”
“Isn’t it your birthday soon? How old will you be?”
“You know very well I’ll be thirty. I’m already getting grey hairs and wrinkles
.”
“How’s . . . what’s his name?”
“Brad’s fine. He’s doing a lot of work designing eBook covers now. It’s a growing market.”
“Great. And you?”
“I’m good, and Rochelle is coming along nicely.”
“You make my granddaughter sound like a casserole.”
“Her birthday was last month.”
“Your mother did the birthdays. There must be a list around here somewhere.”
“How are you, dad?”
“You know.”
“I know, but it’s been five years now. That’s a long time to be grieving. You should get out, meet people, go on a date or something.”
“I don’t think so. I am getting out though. I’m working a case.”
“I’m glad. Do you want to speak to Rochelle?”
“And say what? I’ll wait until she’s finished first grade and can talk some sense.”
“One of these days, you’ll be a real granddad.”
“Well, I suppose I’d better go. I can hear my breakfast calling. Give my regards to . . . what’s his name and say ‘goo goo’ to Rochelle.”
“Thanks for ringing, dad. Look after yourself.”
“And you.”
“There you go, Carrie,” he said out loud. “Daughters contacted and spoken to – orders obeyed. But it’s not the same without you. You know I’m no good at all the touchy-feely stuff. Sara wanted me to talk to her two-year-old. I mean, what do I know about talking to babies? I declined, of course.”
He finished his coffee and headed to the bathroom for a shower.
Chapter Nine
“You can get up now,” he said to her. He had a bath towel wrapped around his waist and was using a hand towel to get the water out of his ears.
“This is just the best bed.”
“Oh, I know, but there’s just one problem – it’s my bed. Come on, the day started three hours ago. We have people to see.”
“But it’s Saturday.”
“The best day to see people because they’re at home.”
“Even investigative journalists have a day off.”
“That may be true, but today’s not that day. Are you still here? I’m taking my towel off now.”
“I don’t frighten easy, ya know.”
He chased her out and shut the door. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a relationship developing between them. Maybe he was the father she always wanted and she was the daughter he might have had if he’d been at home more often.
Mabel was looking at him.
He shrugged. “It is what it is, Mabel.”
Once he was dressed in chinos and a linen short-sleeved shirt, he wandered out into the living room.
“Hey, we got twenty-seven replies to our request on the forum. Times must be hard.”
He poured himself a coffee. “So now what?”
“I’ve given them the once-over. We’re down to seven. I’ll go over them again and whittle them down to two or three, and then we can decide which one.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll go for breakfast now.”
“Breakfast! But . . . what about me?”
“You’re not ready.”
“That’s because I’ve been –”
“Sleeping?”
“No. I’ve been . . . I’ll go and get ready.”
“Well, if you’re ready by the time I’ve finished my coffee, then you can come with me, but . . .”
She rushed off barefooted down the corridor to the bathroom. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
“My belly’s rumbling.”
It took her nine and a half minutes to get ready. She wore a dark-grey tank top, a short red-and-black plaid skirt with an army-type canvas belt and pouches, and another skull-studded choker. Her army boots were by the door, and she’d plastered red eye shadow above her eyes in the shape of lightning bolts.
“I’m never going to be anonymous with you in tow, am I?” he said.
“That’s for sure.”
While they were eating breakfast in the restaurant, Rae read the CVs of the final seven candidates and narrowed them down to three.
“There’s not a lot to choose between the final three. They’re all local, they’ve all graduated from hacker obscurity, and they all seem to know what they’re doing. You choose: There’s Bactrian, Angel One, and Grizzly Ugly.”
“They must have had terrible parents.”
“They’re not real names, ya know.”
“I never would have guessed.”
“Well, which one?”
“Grizzly Ugly doesn’t sound like a very nice person.”
“I don’t think you can infer that.”
“Well, that’s my thinking, and Angel One sounds like a female, and I was comfortable dealing with Harry.”
“That’s sexist. You’re not allowed to choose on the basis of biological sex.”
“If it’s my choice, then I’ll use whatever criteria I feel like using. So, Bactrian is my choice – it sounds manly.”
“You’re a dinosaur.”
“So people keep saying.”
“I’ll arrange a meet. We don’t want to ask him to do illegal stuff on a forum.”
“Okay.”
He cleared his plate and swilled it down with coffee while Rae arranged the meeting.
“Eleven-fifteen at the Java Internet Cafe on Saragossa Street in the Spanish Quarter.”
He shrugged. One place was as good as another, and it was reasonably close.
“That’s it. Done,” she said.
“Good. Let’s go then.”
“I haven’t finished my breakfast yet. It’s all right for you sitting there stuffing your face while I do all the work.”
His face creased up. “Hurry up then. At the moment, you’re about fifteen minutes behind me. You need to catch up.”
She ignored him.
He signaled Manuel over to fill up his mug.
***
He’d planned to start the day with a run up Route 1 to Ponte Vedra to see Dulcie Carrick. She was another investigative journalist, and her name had been highlighted in Mercy Hebb’s address book. She worked for the Ponte Vedra Camera, and he had her home address. He’d tried ringing her home number and cell, but got no answer.
There was a problem though. It was now quarter to eleven, and they were due to meet Bactrian at eleven-fifteen.
Saragossa Street was mostly a residential area, but there was a small shopping mall on the corner with Cordova Street, and the Java Internet Cafe took up a large, glass-fronted retail space.
People turned to stare at them as they walked into the room.
It had recently been whitewashed, and the smell of paint hung heavy in the air. There were about ten rows of back-to-back computers, and most of the seats were taken.
“You can stay,” an effeminate, chinless man said to Rae, “but you look completely out of place, darling,” he said, looking Tom up and down.
Rae stepped between them. “We’re both staying. Any idea which one is Bactrian?”
“One? You mean two, don’t you?”
“Do I?”
He pointed to a young man and woman sitting together in front of a screen halfway down one of the rows. “Those two.”
“Thanks. You can go now.”
“Huh! Some people have no manners.”
“So much for your idea about Bactrian sounding manly,” Rae said to him. “I should have remembered that it’s the name for a two-humped camel.”
“As long as they can do the job. Get them to come outside. I don’t want the whole of America knowing our business.”
She walked towards them.
He went and stood outside.
Rae came out with the woman. “This is Jane Cooper. That’s her fiancé inside. They’re starting their own computer company together, and Jane is the front man.”
He shook hands with Jane, who had red pitted skin around her nose, bags under her eyes, and large pendulous breasts ben
eath a white T-shirt that said Live it, Feel it on the front in bold black letters.
“Hi. Should we talk money first,” he said.
Jane gave a nervous smile and glanced at Rae. “I can’t talk money until you tell me what it is you want me and Ryan to do.”
“I want phone, bank and credit card reports for a –”
“You’re not police are you?”
Tom smiled. “I used to be four years ago, but now I’m just plain old Joe Citizen, with the emphasis on old.”
“Yes, I can see that. Okay, so you want telephone, bank and credit card reports for . . . ?”
“Oscar Gibson.”
Rae gave her Gibson’s details.
“And we want his Internet activity,” Tom added.
“How long do you want the reports to be for?” Jane asked.
Tom thought for a minute. He had no idea what he was looking for. Maybe a lead or two, or a pattern. “Three months probably.”
“Okay. The reports we can get in about an hour, but the man’s Internet activity will take a couple of days. We have to hack into his computer –”
“Using a shellcode?” Tom said with a smile.
Jane’s eyes creased to slits and she glanced at Rae. ‘That’s right.”
“Don’t worry,” Rae said. “It’s a new word he’s learned today.”
“Yeah right. Well, let’s say five hundred for the reports, and another five for the Internet activity.”
Tom’s eyes opened wide. “A thousand dollars! I should arrest you for trying to rob me in broad daylight.”
“I thought you weren’t police?”
“I can make a citizen’s arrest.”
Rae laughed. “It’s no good talking to him; it’s his money. Let’s be realistic though. You’re just one of a number of people we could have asked, so I don’t think you should price yourself out of the market. What about a hundred for the reports, and fifty for the Internet activity?”
“You’re joking. If you think you can get someone to do what you’re asking for less . . .”
“This is where you’re meant to negotiate.”
“I’ve given you my price. Take it, or leave it.”