I stared at the small black and silver thing lying in my palm. Had it been in my pocket all weekend?
A picture rose in my mind—Mom and me walking on the beach, heads down against the wind, our hands in our pockets. The flash drive hadn’t been there.
I walked to Mom’s room and opened the door. Lady Gaga’s “I’m on the Edge of Glory” assaulted my ears.
“Mom.”
She kept swaying, her eyes closed. I stepped to her CD player and turned down the volume. Mom’s eyes snapped open.
I held out the flash drive. “This was in my coat pocket. Do you know anything about it?”
My voice remained light, even as I braced myself. Mom was known to pick up items and put them down . . . somewhere else. Anywhere. Half the time she didn’t even remember—and would be very indignant if I pressed her on the subject. She did not relish being treated “like a child.”
She peered down at the drive. “What is it?”
“It’s a little thing you plug into a computer. It holds data.”
“What would I want with that?”
“I don’t know. I just wondered, since it appeared in my pocket.”
Mom drew back her head, her lips pressed. “Well, I didn’t put it there.”
“You have any idea who would?”
She thought a moment. Her face lit at an idea. “Morton.”
“Morton?”
“When I came up to you both, he was fumbling with your pocket. I saw him.”
My mouth opened. I gazed at Mom, reliving that moment on the side of Tunitas Road. “You’re right. He was doing something with my pocket.” Amazing that she’d remembered that detail.
We both looked at the flash drive.
“Can it hold pictures?” Mom reached out to touch it.
“Yes.”
Her eyes rounded. “Maybe they’re of his daughter. The one we’re supposed to find for him.”
I nodded. “Maybe so.”
“Let’s go see! Turn on your computer.”
She turned toward the door, excited. I grasped her arm. “Mom, that’ll take awhile. Why don’t you keep dancing? I’ll let you know what I find.”
Mom peered at me. A song ended on the CD, and another started. “Okay.”
Before leaving her room I turned up the volume on Lady Gaga—just enough that I hoped would satisfy Mom. As I closed her door, the music got even louder.
Standing in the hall, I stared at the flash drive. Had Morton given me this?
“Don’t tell. Be careful.”
The vague unease came over me again. Part of me—a big part—didn’t want to know what this was. But what if it was important? Morton had been so insistent . . .
Maybe it was Emily’s. Somehow I’d just missed it in my coat.
I returned to the front closet and retrieved my cell phone from my coat’s right pocket. I turned it off and placed it in my purse, which was sitting in the kitchen.
I lingered at the counter, looking at the flash drive in my hand. Should I see what was on it?
What if this thing contained contaminated files? Once I plugged it into my laptop, the virus could spread into my computer. Never a good idea to connect your computer to something you weren’t sure about.
“Please. It’s important.”
A sigh escaped me. Almost as if pushed, I found myself entering my bedroom and sitting down at the small corner desk. As my slow, over-the-hill laptop booted up I relieved the scene with Morton. The terror and despair on his face. That sense of extreme urgency, as if I were his last hope.
For what?
Before plugging in the flash drive I performed a manual backup of my files onto my external drive. It would been done automatically when I was last on the computer, but I didn’t want to take chances. And if that external drive were to go down, I had a second, online backup. Anytime my computer sat idle for thirty minutes, the online backup kicked in automatically.
I picked up the flash drive and stared at it some more. As if it would speak to me, tell me its secrets. Then I plugged it in. When the “found new hardware” prompt appeared, I clicked to view the files it contained. One appeared: “video.”
Something squirmed in my stomach.
How to explain my feeling at that moment? It was as if an oppressive fog had crept into my room. Dark and swirling and filled with portent. I looked over my shoulder. Nothing, of course. Everything remained the same. My queen bed with its large blue pillows—the bed I now slept in by myself since Jeff died. The old wallpaper we’d been meaning to replace for years. My long dresser against the far wall. Jeff’s near the corner—now filled with my clothes. The pound-pound of Mom’s music still filtered from her bedroom.
And yet . . . something.
Would I see some horrible picture on this video that I would forever try to rid from my mind?
Really, Hannah. Some imagination.
I opened the file.
Chapter 4
I leaned forward in my desk chair, eyes focused on the monitor, waiting for the flash drive to load. A rattley car passed by on the street, and somewhere a dog barked. These sounds I half registered above Mom’s music.
On my screen a rectangular box appeared. In it . . . what? Looked like a huge piece of machinery. Garish green and silver, with various pipes and hoses, and two identical beige panels.
The usual start arrow sat in the middle of this picture. I took a breath—and clicked it. The video began in silence, as if it were being filmed with audio off. The machine just sat there. Then it shook. Small black pieces began to fall off it. I couldn’t tell what they were. The machine rocked a second time—and more pieces fell. At the third shaking, white, black, then gray steam began pouring out. In a few seconds steam obliterated the machine.
What was this?
The scene changed to a somewhat blurred picture. I saw the side of a building, and next to it, toward the top of the video, giant steel legs of a massive tower. Other steel girders with round parts filled the picture. What were they? The video wasn’t clear enough to tell. In the back of my mind the array of steel felt familiar. A large black tank sat on the ground, with a fat pipe bending from one end toward the sky.
In the next second, black smoke spewed from that pipe. White smoke billowed up from some other area, but I couldn’t see where. Equipment in the foreground blocked my view. The black smoke stopped, but the white kept spewing until the building and half the legs of the tower disappeared.
The video ended, the last frame freezing on my screen. It had taken one minute, five seconds.
Frowning, I eased back in my chair. What did any of this mean?
I watched it again, trying to separate the details.
How was the first piece of equipment related to the second scene? That first machinery had looked like it was breaking apart, causing steam to rush out. Was that machinery connected to the black tank I later saw? But the green and silver equipment was nowhere in that second scene. So if they were connected—how?
Why would Morton give this to me?
I folded my arms. Maybe he hadn’t. Mom could have invented the whole scenario based on seeing the man’s hand pull at my coat. Just as she’d extrapolated on his words to invent his long-lost “daughter.”
But then—where would the flash drive have come from? And I had felt Morton’s hand fingering my left pocket.
I enlarged the video to full screen and watched it a third time. And a fourth. Each time the array of steel in the second scene seemed familiar. But I couldn’t put my finger on it, and the picture remained too blurry.
In Mom’s room Lady Gaga played on. I hoped Mom had forgotten about the flash drive and its “pictures of Morton’s daughter.”
One more time I watched the video, memorizing its sequences. Still I had no idea what it was.
“Don’t
tell anyone.”
More strangeness trickled through me. I needed to ask Morton about this. Maybe we could visit him in the hospital in a few hours. He would be stabilized by then.
I glanced around at the digital clock on my nightstand. Almost 3:00.
Mom’s music stopped.
I sighed relief into the blessed silence. She’d be tired from all the dancing. Time for her nap.
Giving up on the video, I unplugged the flash drive from my computer. I’d return it to Morton. Or at least find out to whom I should mail it. As long as it remained in my possession, his pleas would haunt me. I didn’t want to do whatever he so needed. Didn’t I have enough to handle in my life? I wanted to be rid of this . . . whatever it was. All of it.
I set the flash drive on my desk.
In the kitchen I pulled my phone book from a drawer. Would the yellow pages have a listing for the Moss Beach hospital, where they’d taken Morton? That area was far outside the white pages coverage. I stared at my tile counter, trying to remember the hospital’s name.
Coastside.
I flipped to the yellow pages and checked. No listing.
Showed my age—using the yellow pages at all. Emily would have looked it up online.
Back at my computer I Google-searched the hospital until I found the phone number. I picked up my bedroom receiver and punched in the numbers. When the receptionist answered I asked for the emergency room. The line clicked.
“Coastside E.R.” The female voice sounded very efficient.
“Hi. My name is Hannah Shire. I’d like to check on a man that came into your department less than two hours ago. His first name is Morton.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know. I . . . we were the first ones to see him at the car accident. I called 911. Just wanted to see if he’s okay.”
“You said Morton?”
“Yes.”
A long pause. “Ah.”
What did that mean?
“Hold a minute, please.”
I waited, pacing my small bedroom, right hand cupping my left elbow. In my mind I felt the wind on Tunitas Creek Road and smelled the open field. Remembered the surprising strength of Morton’s fingers as they sank into my arm. “Please. Important.”
“Ma’am?”
I jumped. “Yes?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Hannah Shire.”
“Are you a relative of the patient?”
“No.”
Another pause. In the background I could hear a doctor’s name being called.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you any information.”
“Why? Do you know how he’s doing?”
“I can’t give you any information.”
“I’d just like—”
“Sorry. I suggest you call the sheriff’s department if you’d like to learn more.”
Sheriff’s department?
I ended the call and stared at the receiver. This could be normal policy for the hospital. All the same, it unnerved me.
The front door bell rang. I jumped again—a sign of nerves on edge. Who could that be? Neighbors and friends didn’t tend to just show up at my door.
I shoved the phone into its holder and hurried toward the entryway, hoping the sound hadn’t awakened Mom. At the living room window I leaned to one side, trying to glimpse who stood on the porch. I caught the partial side of a man in a dark suit.
Great. Religious solicitors.
“Mrs. Shire?”
The muffled voice came through the door, followed by a harder knock. I jerked back from the window.
“Mrs. Shire?”
I edged toward the door and leaned in. “Who is it?”
“We’re with the FBI, ma’am.” The accent was a Southern drawl. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
FBI? “What about?”
“The accident you saw today.”
The answer hit me in the gut. I drew back, nerves shimmying. What was this? That deputy knew I’d lied to him, and now the FBI was at my door? What had I done?
What had Morton done?
Rationality pulsed through me, pushing back the paranoia. “Just a minute.”
I unlocked the door and opened it a couple inches. Not one, but two men, stood on my porch. They both reached inside their coat pockets and drew out folded black holders. Inside each was a gold-colored FBI badge and a picture of the man with his signature.
I pulled back the door. “Please come in.”
With tight smiles, the two men stepped inside. They were of equal height, about six feet. The one with the accent was quite young—early twenties, maybe? He had a lanky build, a buzz cut, and a stern, hard jaw. The other was a good ten years older, with a shaved head. The latter’s chest and arms were huge. I focused on him, taking in his steel-gray eyes. “What can I do for you?”
I couldn’t help but glance toward the hallway. Mom could be quite rattled if she saw two strange men in our living room. On the other hand, she might be delighted and offer to play one of her CDs for them.
The younger one spoke up. “I’m Special Agent Rutger, and this is Samuelson. We’re sorry to barge in on you like this. We just need to ask you a few questions regarding the auto accident you witnessed today.”
“I didn’t see the accident. We came upon the scene after it happened.”
“We . . . ?”
“My mother and I.”
“Is she here?”
“She’s napping.” I spoke abruptly, as if protecting a child. I could feel the eyes of both men boring into me. “She struggles with dementia. She wouldn’t be able to help you anyway.”
“I see.”
Rutger glanced around. “Mind if we sit down?”
I extended my arm toward the couch. The men took opposite sides of the sofa, sitting forward, legs spread. Samuelson withdrew a small notebook and pen from his inside coat pocket. I sat facing them in Mom’s old cane rocker, furniture that had been handed down from her mother. Mom had left her favorite red-and-blue crocheted blanket hanging over one arm of the chair. I rubbed it absently. “Can you tell me how the man is doing? I only know his first name: Morton.”
Rutger looked down and nodded. “I understand you called 911.”
“Yes. How is he?”
Rutger’s lips pressed. “I’m sorry to say he didn’t make it.”
My eyes widened. “He’s . . . dead?”
The agent nodded.
The news hit me in the chest. I leaned back in the chair, gazing around the room. As bad as Morton had looked, it was still hard to believe he was dead. Poor man. And I’d had high hopes that he would make it. Could I have done something more? My thoughts turned to the words he’d spoken. Now he could never explain them to me. Did he have the chance to tell someone at the hospital?
I’d never be able to ask him about the flash drive.
“How did he die?”
“Why would you ask that? You saw he was in an accident.” Samuelson spoke in a light enough tone, but something lay beneath. I frowned at him.
“I knew Morton was in pain, and I think unconscious when they put him in the ambulance. But I just thought . . . When he said his chest hurt, I feared internal injuries. Is that what happened?”
“You could say that.”
Both men regarded me, unblinking. Why weren’t they answering directly? As if they toyed with me. Something in the air shifted. My muscles tightened, and for a split-second my breath held. These men no longer seemed harmless. They were too caught up in the power of their badges, the federal government behind them. What did they want?
My mind flitted to Mom, sleeping in her bedroom. So vulnerable. So needy.
I sat up straighter, allowing my expression to harden. I stared back at Samuelson. “Why are you h
ere? What do you want from me?”
A beat passed. The three of us faced off.
“His name was Morton Leringer.” Rutger spoke up, his accent drawing out the name. “You know who that is?”
“No.”
“He’s a billionaire financier from this area.”
Driving such a nondescript car? “What was he doing on that little road?”
“He owns an estate—one of many across the country—up on Skyline. Overlooks the ocean.”
He’d been so close to home. The thought saddened me more.
“So what do you want from me?” The two men still stared, and I glared right back. They were leading up to something, I could feel it. And I didn’t care for their games.
Samuelson’s head moved, just the slightest. “Mrs. Shire, Morton Leringer did not die as a result of wounds sustained in an accident.”
“No?” I frowned at him.
“Not at all.” Samuelson laser-focused on my face. “The man was murdered.”
Chapter 5
Murdered? Air left my lungs. “What? How can that be?”
Samuelson’s stare was unyielding. “Leringer was stabbed in the back.”
“When? You mean at the hospital?”
“No.”
I waited for more, but they sat like stone. “What then?”
“He was stabbed before the ambulance arrived, Mrs. Shire.” Samuelson’s tone was flat.
I blinked. “You mean, when I was with him, he’d been stabbed?”
Samuelson nodded.
Coldness trickled through my veins. All that time I’d been with Morton, he had a knife wound in his back? “I . . . can’t believe it. Why didn’t he tell me?”
“We thought he may have.”
“No. He never said . . . I just can’t believe this. When was he stabbed? Who could have done it?”
“It was a single wound. It hit his pericardium—the sac around the heart.”
My head lowered. After all my years of working in a cardiologist’s office, I knew what that meant. Morton’s pericardium would have filled with blood while causing little external bleeding. No wonder he’d had such trouble breathing. He’d have gone into shock. Meanwhile the paramedics, fearing spinal injury, couldn’t move him enough to find the wound.
Dark Justice Page 4