NINETEEN
I leave the chat room without saying goodbye. He’ll know the exact second I’ve left. I am shaking again; the fear is palpable.
I’m not afraid of p4r4d0x. He is still an anonymous, faceless screen name. No, I’m afraid of Tracker. Of Zeke.
There is no way he could have known about the hit on me unless he was the Tracker of the conversation I saw. There was no imposter. Has there ever been?
And if he is the Tracker in that chat room with p4r4d0x, he is the one who is going to kill me.
Again, I play devil’s advocate with myself. What if he is undercover? What if he is online as Tracker only to trick p4r4d0x into revealing himself? No, I cannot be certain; the conversation points to Tracker as the one who shot Tony, who tried to kill him.
I can understand why Zeke is so hell-bent on arresting Tony. Tony’s got his hands in a lot of criminal pots, and arresting him would be a coup for any FBI agent. But killing him? I wonder what really happened when Zeke was undercover. He didn’t say anything about what he did, exactly. Was he immersed in Tony DeMarco’s organization? If so, what did he see? What was he asked to do? What did he do?
From the conversation I’ve just witnessed, Tracker means to kill Tony and kill me, too. Why didn’t he kill me when he found me in Falmouth? Why put all that stuff on that laptop to incriminate me; why get me involved? Or is it some sort of backup plan? If he can’t kill me, maybe he thinks he can frame me so I’ll finally pay for my crime.
It’s these questions that make me think twice again about whether the Tracker I saw with p4r4d0x is really Zeke. He’s had so many opportunities, if he was so inclined, to kill me in the last couple of days, not to mention ever since he found me in Quebec. I am a non-person; I don’t exist. No one would ever know what happened. It could be the perfect crime.
Am I merely trying to talk myself out of believing this could be Zeke?
And then it hits me. He can’t kill me until he gets the money.
I pull the laptop toward me. Discovering someone’s identity in Tor, behind a VPN, is difficult at best, but nothing is impossible. There are always traces of us left behind. Zeke is no stranger to this either, since the FBI has developed malware to deliver users’ IP addresses to servers outside the Tor network, de-anonymizing those users.
Since Tor runs on the Firefox application, there have been security holes, holes that the FBI has created itself. But software patches have been developed to counteract that effort. I wonder if Zeke has been trying to compromise Tor by infecting those patches. If so, however, he can’t have been successful, since he would already have found Tony DeMarco’s site – and whoever has been setting us up.
If it’s not Zeke himself.
Without thinking about it, I type ‘Zeke Chapman’ into a search engine.
The first things that pop up are the news stories from sixteen years ago, the ones that reported Zeke’s death on the houseboat in Paris. I’ve read them before; they don’t tell me anything new. There are Zeke Chapmans on social media, but as I click on each one, I don’t see his familiar face. There are white pages that list Zeke Chapman in various cities and towns across the country; none of them seem to be him. I call up the images, and none of those men even remotely resemble him.
It is unusual these days for someone not to have some sort of Internet footprint. But maybe not for someone like Zeke, who wants to hide behind screen names online. Maybe in the world of the Internet, Zeke Chapman truly is dead.
There isn’t even a mention of him before Paris. It is as though he existed for only that one moment.
I scroll back to one of the stories about his death and scan it. Yes, there it is. ‘He is survived by his wife, Lauren.’
I type ‘Lauren Chapman’ and ‘teacher’ into the search engine.
There are a lot of Lauren Chapmans. I click on all the social media links, but none of them are teachers. I find one history professor at a small college in Idaho, but she is considerably older, a professor emeritus. No, she can’t be the one.
I could search for ‘Lauren’ and ‘teacher,’ but I don’t even want to think how many I’d find. I don’t even know where they lived; Zeke was here in Miami, but that’s not to say that he lived here with her.
I lean back and close my eyes. I wish I’d found out more about her, more about him, but he always seemed so simple. FBI agent. Married. Unhappily. Easy to seduce. What more did I need to know back then? I wasn’t thinking long-term. And then when I saw him again in New York, when I found out he wasn’t dead, I was in shock. And even more shock when he told me he was Tracker.
My eyes snap open. I know nothing about him. Nothing at all.
Nothing except what he’s told me. Which is what, exactly?
I shut the laptop and scramble to my feet.
An idea skitters through my head, and I need a phone. It means going back out, but I can’t stay hidden in my room forever. Zeke doesn’t know where I am; Ian didn’t recognize me. I convince myself that this is a good idea, that it’s the only idea.
My trip to the 7-Eleven is uneventful. I chide myself for being paranoid. Zeke might guess that I’ve come home, so to speak, but he doesn’t know where I’m staying. I’ve disabled the GPS in the laptop, and there are plenty of hotels and motels to choose from. It could take a little while for him to discover this one. I’m not going to be here too much longer anyway.
I am not one of those hackers who regularly use social engineering. I hope I don’t sound boastful when I say that I am more gifted with coding than tricking someone with words into giving me information. My father was the one who used his words, his personality, to get everything he wanted from people. His smile and seemingly easygoing personality drew in his clients, made them trust him while all the time he was conning them behind their backs. I never wanted to go that route, be like him. But right now, I am going to try.
I find the phone number for the local FBI field office online, and I punch the number into my new disposable phone. I almost hang up before someone answers, but when I hear the voice and it’s not a machine, I clear my throat and begin.
‘I’d like to talk to your human resources department, please.’
‘I’m sorry, but you need to call our main headquarters in Washington, D.C.’
I was afraid of that, but I’m ready for it. ‘I’m with Sun Bank, and I just need to verify that someone works there.’ I sigh deeply, so she can hear. ‘I screwed up, and I was supposed to get this information two days ago, but I forgot. Can you just tell me if Zeke Chapman works there and what his official title is? I would really appreciate it.’
‘Um, well, I’m not supposed to—’
‘I’ll get fired,’ I say. ‘Seriously. He applied for a mortgage, and we’re doing a background check. You must know about that, right?’ I’m laying it on a little thick, but hopefully she won’t notice.
‘OK, hold on a sec.’
I am on hold only a few minutes when she comes back.
‘Zeke Chapman?’
‘Yes.’
‘A mortgage?’
I am beginning to feel a little queasy. ‘That’s right.’
‘You’re sure he works here, at the FBI?’ Her voice is hushed now, furtive.
‘Yes. That’s what he put on his application.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know where you got that information. There is no Zeke Chapman here. He’s not an agent here, and he doesn’t work in any other department. I even checked the database to see if he’s with another field office in another state, but he’s not. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to tell you.’
TWENTY
I hang up the phone without saying goodbye or thank you. My hands are shaking, and I make two fists and take a deep breath. Does Zeke even work for the FBI? Did he ever?
Last summer, Zeke wanted me to go undercover with Tony DeMarco, who’d offered me a job hacking for him. I am not a fan of bureaucracy, but Zeke had been so quick to make that plan, to push me to do it wi
thout any obvious sign that he’d cleared it with his superiors. I’d suspected he was going rogue, but maybe it was worse than that.
I get up and begin to pace. I am not safe here. Why did I get on that plane with Zeke? Why did I allow him to talk me into this, coming with him, agreeing to help him? He fed my fear of Tony DeMarco, my fear that I could still end up in prison for what I’ve done.
I stop pacing and sit back down in front of the laptop. I do a quick search and through my research discover one thing: Zeke’s reveal about the statute of limitations, my status as a fugitive, is correct. So at least I know he didn’t lie about that.
My head is spinning. What about Tracker? Has he lied about being Tracker, too? I don’t have any real proof that Zeke is Tracker, except that he repeated the French phrases to me. If he’d been privy to our conversations online, he would know this. The shadow in my laptop did.
For a while, I’d suspected that Tracker was the shadow. The shadow knew everything about the bank job, about Steve and Jeanine, about the account I’d set up that the FBI hadn’t found. Only someone close to me would know those things.
Zeke wants to get close to me, or at least that’s what he’s said. He said that finding me wasn’t about the bank job. It was about me. I close my eyes and can still feel his lips on mine. For a second, I wanted him as much as he wanted me. But what if that’s a lie, too? What if it really is about the money, just like ‘Tracker’ told p4r4d0x? What if he’s trying to seduce me into helping him get both the money and Tony DeMarco? I seduced him the last time, as he reminded me. Now, maybe he thinks it’s his turn.
I wrap my arms around my torso, wishing I could disappear into myself. I am alone in a city I barely know anymore. I have limited funds. I can trust no one.
I find myself on the beach again, my little room in the distance. I am taking a risk, coming out here, but I need to see the water, feel it around my feet. I walk along the edge of the sea and spot a bright orange kite in the sky, hear children laughing.
My heartbeat has slowed, and I begin to think more clearly. I consider the reason I am here, the reason I had to leave Cape Cod, and not just because Zeke told me to. I was interrogated by the FBI, and I don’t believe that was a lie. A crime was committed; Tony DeMarco got shot.
I don’t know that much about it, just what I’ve read online in the news reports. Tony DeMarco is in stable condition. Ian is staying in his house. I’m not sure what his role is in Tony’s operation, and I’m not sure that he’s still feeding information to the FBI. He might be. He also might be responsible for the hit.
However, Ian – or at least the Ian I used to know – is not prone to biting off the hand that feeds him, so to speak. Even if he’d somehow gained a multitude of computer skills, I am not convinced that he is behind this.
I am calmer when I am not thinking about Zeke, so I decide I have to turn my attention away from him. See if I can’t find out what’s going on with Tony. Find out who p4r4d0x is. I don’t need Tracker to do this. I’ve used him as a crutch for far too long. I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.
I head back to the room and do a little sleuthing online, but I still cannot find any updated information about Tony DeMarco’s condition. All of the news sources say that he is hospitalized, but there is no more information than that.
The more I think about this, about how someone was hired to kill him, the clearer it is that whoever did it, failed. Which means either that the hitman was not truly a professional or that Tony DeMarco wasn’t really supposed to die.
It is not difficult to find Adriana DeMarco’s cell phone number. Of course, it’s not listed, but it’s remarkably easy to get inside the carrier’s code. There are only three or four wireless carriers that anyone uses, and I choose the one that has the widest service areas. It is a no-brainer. Anyone could have guessed right.
As I punch in Adriana’s number on the disposable phone, I realize that she may be in the hospital and she won’t pick up. But she answers on the second ring.
‘Hello?’ Her tone is tentative; I am coming up on her phone as ‘unknown caller.’
I am nervous, and I hope that my voice doesn’t waver. ‘Miss DeMarco?’
‘Yes?’ I can hear her tone become even more guarded; she is wary, and I don’t have much time to win her over.
For a second I consider telling her the truth: that I am her sister. She most likely doesn’t know she has a sister, any more than I knew all these years. Would she embrace it? Would she call me a liar? Would she confront her father once he recovers? Would he tell her?
For the first time, I wonder if he would want me dead only if to keep the secret that she is not truly his daughter. My father is dead, as is my mother. There is no one, then, to tell.
Except Zeke. How, exactly, does he know?
The thought throws me off for a second, and I struggle to regain my composure. ‘Miss DeMarco, my name is Agent Nancy Lyon and I am with the FBI in Miami. I just want to confirm with you that you are aware that Roger and Amelie Parker are staying at your father’s home here.’ Impersonating an FBI agent is probably one of those criminal acts that can dredge up my past, but if it’s a way in, I need to take it.
‘Hold on a moment, please.’
I am not sure what’s going on, and I am ready to hang up and abandon the whole thing when she comes back on the line.
‘I’m sorry, Agent Lyon, but I was with someone. What can I do for you?’
I want to find out who she’s with, but that would raise red flags, so instead I say, ‘I’m verifying that you’re aware that Mr and Mrs Parker are staying at your father’s residence on Key Biscayne.’
‘Yes. Is there a problem?’
‘No. Just a precaution.’ I pause. ‘I’m sorry about what happened with your father.’
Silence. I’ve made a mistake. Again, I’m ready to end the call when she finally speaks.
‘Well, you are the first one to say that, and I appreciate it. It’s almost as though all of you think he should have died.’ Her voice has an edge to it. ‘What are you doing about finding the man who tried to kill him, anyway?’
‘We’re doing all we can,’ I say, hoping that since I’m telling the truth she’ll hear it in my voice. ‘How is he doing?’
‘He’s stable. They think he can go home soon.’
‘That’s good news. Will he come back here, to Miami?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you come home with him?’
‘Of course.’
‘Who will run your businesses?’ She owns two spas in New York – her father is suspected of laundering money through them, but she most likely doesn’t know that, either. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry,’ I add. I may be pushing it, but she hasn’t hung up on me yet, and I admit that the longer I talk to her, the more I wonder about her. Her tone has gotten less defensive now; it’s soft, gentle, almost trusting. Everything that I’m not. I saw her once, last summer, and she is young – the same age I was when I did the bank job. She looks like me at that age. Her hair is darker, but her face is mine – our father’s. I wonder what Tony DeMarco thinks when he looks at her. Does he see my father, a reminder of his wife’s infidelity, his best friend’s betrayal? It doesn’t seem as though he has taken it out on her, which speaks well of him – possibly the only thing good in him.
‘That’s all right,’ she is saying. ‘I have people who can take over while I take care of Daddy.’
Her use of the word ‘Daddy’ to describe DeMarco tells me more about their relationship than anything else.
‘Will you be there when we arrive?’ she asks.
‘No. I’m being assigned to another case in a day or so.’
‘You’ve been very kind. I wish you all were like that.’
So do I. ‘Thank you, Miss DeMarco. I’m glad to hear that your father is doing well.’
‘He was very lucky.’
‘Were you there?’ I ask it before I think. If I were real FBI, I would know this.
<
br /> But it doesn’t faze her. ‘No. I was in my apartment. I heard the shots.’
‘And you have no idea who would do this?’
She laughs, and I shouldn’t be, but I’m surprised. She laughs like me. Not for the first time, I think about how my father had very strong genes. I wonder how much she’s like me in other ways.
‘Daddy has a lot of enemies, but you already know that.’
‘Yes.’
‘It was ordered online. The hit. But you know that, too.’
‘We’re working on that.’ Another truth. But I have to get back to what I’m looking for, and I have to take a risk. ‘Is it possible for you to give me Roger Parker’s cell number? We’d like to set up a time to go over and make sure the house is safe for your return.’
She hesitates, but only for a second. ‘I’m not sure I can give that out.’ She’s smart; I wouldn’t give it to me, either.
‘I promise not to abuse it,’ I say, forcing my tone to be much lighter. ‘It’s a precaution. We wouldn’t want you to be compromised on your return, and we have to make sure that Mr and Mrs Parker are safe as well.’ The idea that they might be in danger, too, lingers.
‘I never thought of that,’ she says softly. ‘If it would be helpful …’
‘Yes, it would be incredibly helpful.’
She rattles it off the top of her head, which makes me wonder about Ian and how well he knows this girl.
I repeat the phone number back to her, and she murmurs that I’ve got it right.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘I have to get back.’
‘Yes.’ I am not quite sure how to say goodbye. I have an urge to stay on the line, to ask her more about herself. ‘I’ll pass this along. Take care.’ I hang up before she responds. I have what I set out to get.
TWENTY-ONE
Tony DeMarco is not dead; he is doing well enough to come home soon. I don’t know exactly when, so I have to take advantage of this immediate window of opportunity. Getting Ian’s phone number out of Adriana was easy, maybe too easy, and it’s very possible that she’s going to tell him about the nice FBI agent who called, concerned about him and his family. She might even tell him tonight – if they are friendly enough.
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