It’s more than likely that Ian knows the truth about Adriana. He met me when I was in college; the resemblance between me and my half-sister is pronounced. He may not know the whole story, but he is not stupid and could piece it together.
I think about the phone call, hearing her voice. I have no family left except her, and she doesn’t even know I exist. What would it be like to have a sister? Is it too late to have a relationship with her? Could we be friends? Would we find a deeper bond between us as time went on? When I was young, I used to fantasize about having siblings. An older brother, maybe, or a sister around my age with whom I could share secrets. Either way, it would have been someone who could share the burden of my parents.
The laptop needs to be powered up. I grab the backpack and rummage around in it, pulling out its cord. Something’s tangled in it, and I am holding the small box, the wireless router device, that I confiscated from that teenager at the coffee shop.
I eye the cell phone number I’ve written down on the small pad on the table. I had the crazy idea that I could try to call Ian, maybe talk to him about Tony, find out what’s going on. But a different idea begins to form.
Besides impersonating an FBI agent, I’m about to do something else that’s probably not very legal. After plugging in the power cord, I turn to the laptop and find my way to Tor. I locate the link to the site I’ve read about. I’ve never done this before, but it’s so straightforward. I download the program and it only takes a few minutes. Tracking cell phones has never been so easy, and from the software’s description, Ian will never even know that the application has been installed remotely on his phone.
It doesn’t take long. A small blinking dot appears on a map. I zoom in and see exactly where Ian Cartwright’s – or, rather, Roger Parker’s – cell phone is.
They are at a South Beach restaurant. I don’t know how long they’ve been there, how long they’ll stay, so I will have to move fast.
I am not completely familiar with the wireless router and how it works, but it’s not difficult to figure out once I turn it on. The device activates a hotspot wireless network that I manage to program so that it will automatically override any other network in the vicinity. It’s a pretty strong signal, which makes me pause for a second and wonder if I shouldn’t buy some sort of stock in it.
I go online and do a search for the router. Although I am initially surprised that the teenager I took it from hasn’t deactivated it, I discover that the data doesn’t expire once it’s purchased. There is no name attached to the device. Maybe the teen stole it from someone who doesn’t know it’s gone. I find my way into the source code of the program’s software and create a new account that only I can see and administer. Whoever this belongs to is out of luck right now.
The website informs me that the router can go about eight hours before having to be recharged. It looks as though there are about seven hours left. I’m uncertain if it’s enough time, but I don’t have much choice, since I don’t have a charger.
While I’ve been sitting here, I can see four other users have come into the network. It’s easy to monitor through the site. With just a few keystrokes, I could be inside their computers. People need to be more careful about noticing which network they’re connected to online.
Since I don’t have the time or the inclination to peek into these other computers, I turn off the router to save the battery and tuck it inside the front pocket of my backpack. It’s a long shot, but the only one I’ve got.
For the second time in just a few hours, I am pedaling the palm-tree-lined street toward Tony DeMarco’s house. I don’t even look when I pass my old home; I’m not here to reminisce.
I don’t see anyone around, not even any cars. It’s as though this whole neighborhood has been abandoned. The houses are quiet, a few lights in windows. I cast a shadow in the pools of light from the street lamps as I pedal down to the end of the road, which circles back around and up again. I strain to hear something, anything, but the only sound comes from the crash of the surf in the distance.
I take care in front of Tony’s house, certain about that elusive security system that probably has a motion detector to make my presence known. I lean the bike against a palm tree and walk around out front, holding up the phone as though I’m taking pictures, all the while glancing around, seeing if I can spot anyone anywhere. But still I see no one.
I reach around behind me and take the wireless router out of my bag and flip the switch. I stoop down and tuck it next to the driveway, under some bushes so it’s concealed.
And then I move away, back down the path to the street, around the house, and to my bike.
When I get back to the motel, I bring the bicycle inside this time. Zeke is probably out looking for me, and if he sees a bike, he will automatically think of me. I don’t want to make it too easy for him.
The laptop is where I left it, powering up. I peel off the bike helmet and drop it on the nightstand. I sit cross-legged on the bed and pull the laptop toward me, its cord snaking across the bedspread. I’m not sure this is going to work, but I flip open the cover, waking it up from its sleep mode.
I had been afraid that I would need to be within range of the router in order to see the information within it, but it’s a powerful little device. I make a mental note to get one for myself as I manage the information that’s popped up on the screen. Five devices have connected to the network I’ve created.
The username for one of them is Amelie. It’s not a common name, at least in the States, so when I see it, a little jolt rushes through me. There is nothing more rewarding than a hit on the first try when hacking.
It doesn’t take me too long to get into her system. She’s not online, but the computer is still connecting to the network. It’s possible that she isn’t aware she left the computer on. I’m not even going to speculate why she wouldn’t either turn it off or put it in sleep mode.
It’s not her work computer, but she has work-related files: memos, job evaluations, copies of payslips. She’s no longer working for the bank in Paris, but she’s working at a bank here, on Brickell Avenue, as a vice president. I wonder what the bank would say if they found out she’s the one who supplied Ian with the numbers for the accounts we stole from.
I quickly move on, because there is limited time with the router.
She’s got a file with passwords – why people insist on keeping those on their laptops is a mystery. I make a copy of the file, for future reference. There is a folder with memos pertaining to her kids’ schools and downloads of their report cards. I have no interest in any of these things. A quick look through Amelie’s Internet search history tells me that she’s concerned about wrinkles, she’s shopped online at Neiman Marcus, and she’s spent a lot of time looking at friends’ pages on Facebook. A little further searching turns up nothing in the deep web, no Tor software.
There’s nothing here linking her to Tony DeMarco, despite the fact that she’s living in his house at the moment.
I can’t help myself, though. I open the program that contains all her photographs. The first is dated today – she must have her phone linked – and it’s a picture of Ian holding up a glass of beer and grinning. It takes me aback, because it’s so familiar. Again I see the young man I fell in love with in his face. How many times had he looked at me like that? And not so long ago, either. I would be surprised if Amelie knows how well Ian and I reconnected last year on Block Island – if she knows anything at all.
I scroll through a few more pictures that have a more artsy feel to them: wine glasses on a glass table, a sunrise over the ocean, the shadow of a palm tree against a full moon. I wouldn’t be surprised to find this batch posted on Amelie’s Instagram account.
The screen is full of thumbnail shots, and I click on one of two boys – or, rather, two teenagers, standing side by side, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders.
And now I know why Daniel – Zeke’s Daniel – looked so familiar. It wasn’t that he�
�s a hacker.
It’s because he’s Ian’s son.
TWENTY-TWO
It’s as though the wind has been knocked out of me. I stare at the photograph, at Daniel, trying to make sense of this. I have no idea what game Zeke is playing, but I don’t like it. He has to know who Daniel is. He must have been waiting for me to see the resemblance, make the connection. I feel stupid that I didn’t see it right away for myself, even though I had a feeling that I knew him from somewhere. Zeke had to know that I’d pick up on it at some point. Maybe he’s laughing because I hadn’t.
My hands are shaking, and I sit back and close my eyes, trying to calm down. It’s one thing after another with Zeke, it seems. Why? Did he bring me here to humiliate me and then have me killed or kill me himself?
Am I overreacting?
My eyes snap open with the thought. Am I? Am I seeing things that are merely figments of my imagination? Zeke has made no secret of how he feels about me, but – as I discovered – I really know nothing about him.
No, I can’t assume that I’m imagining all of this. In fact, I have to assume that my worst fears have been realized, so I’m on alert and ready for anything until I can find out the truth.
The truth that may be right here in front of me.
I take a deep breath and stretch my fingers before continuing.
I get out of Amelie’s computer and check out one of the others that joined my network. Whoever owns it is streaming a movie, a crime drama set in England. I’m pleasantly surprised that the network switch was seamless enough so the viewer didn’t notice, or if he or she did, it didn’t register. I poke around a little bit behind the scenes. I don’t see anything familiar, just a lot of music and videos. Nothing raises any red flags with me. It could be anyone, but I’m pretty certain that it’s not Tony DeMarco or anyone who’s living in his house at the moment.
I move on to the next computer in the network. At first it looks benign, but it’s too clean. Most people’s desktops are littered with files, photographs, but this one is completely clear of any clutter. I look for any documents or images, and there are no files here either, raising even more suspicion. When I see the Internet history, I realize this computer is definitely not benign.
There is no Internet history. Nothing. Whoever owns this computer has been clearing everything.
The Tor software is not hard to find. First, I think this must be Daniel’s computer; who else, besides a hacker, would install a program that would provide such anonymity? But then I wonder if it’s not someone else. Daniel has access to everything he could ever want with even more anonymity through Zeke’s computers in that apartment in South Miami. Unless he’s sneaking home and doing some extracurricular work that Zeke might not know about.
I didn’t have to check the IP address on Amelie’s computer, because it was clearly hers, but this one is a different story. However, when I get the IP address, it doesn’t pinpoint a specific street address, only Harbor Point. So it could be any computer within range of the router.
As I’m pondering my next move, I see it. Someone is using this computer, either in person or remotely. I watch as he – or she – opens the Tor program. I should feel ashamed; I felt so violated last summer when the shadow was watching me, and here I am, doing the very same thing. I justify it by telling myself that I am not like the shadow; I am not going to hold this computer for ransom, demanding money for its release. Instead, I silently watch the user navigate the Hidden Wiki, not unlike the way I did just a few hours ago.
Every muscle is tense; I feel as though I’m going to snap in half.
And then it’s gone.
The entire screen goes black. Suddenly, the pop-up screen with the router information opens, and I see what the problem is: there was a lot less time on the battery than I thought. It’s run out of juice.
I still have the IP address, but access might be beyond reach. Whoever owns this computer clearly knows about security and firewalls. I have to try anyway. I use my advance port scanner program and input the IP address to see if there are any open ports. But there aren’t any; there’s no way in. He probably has it set up to reject any incoming traffic and to prevent ports from opening.
I fall back against the pillow and close my eyes. I’ve at least found out who Daniel is, so it’s not a complete waste. But I’d spent too much time on that, and not enough time looking for a possible link to Tony DeMarco. In retrospect, I also forgot to get Amelie’s IP address. Her computer seemed benign, but there might have been something in her email or other documents that could have told me something more.
Although I’ve come a long way after a long absence, I am still rusty; my instincts are still too slow.
I spring up off the bed and walk across the room and go out on the deck, the warm ocean breeze wrapping itself around me. I have another sudden urge for a paintbrush, an easel. I want to paint the sky, the water, capture the moment. Maybe it would ease the nervous knot in my belly. I want to try to bypass Zeke and catch Tony DeMarco myself, but I have to concentrate on the end game and keep from getting distracted. Maybe then I can finally put the man in prison. Justice would be served – for my father, who died behind bars because his former friend and business associate threw him under the bus.
I conveniently push aside the fact that my father stole from Tony, just as he stole from every other person he came in contact with.
What he stole from me was worth far more than money.
I often have wondered if my mother had not been mentally ill, would my father have been different? Was he a criminal before she became ill? Was he stealing from his clients from the beginning or did he discover that he could do it somewhere along the way? I don’t know. But as I well know, no one really changes; our personalities are set from the start. I am a criminal as much as my father was one. Nature and nurture both, in my case.
Would my father have had an affair with Tony’s wife if my mother hadn’t been ill? Could he have stayed faithful to her? He must have known about Adriana – or maybe he didn’t. It’s possible Tony’s wife kept it from him. Adriana was still a child when he went to prison; she was only five when I left and she didn’t look like me, not really, not yet. My father may have died not knowing he had two daughters.
I’m envious of Adriana. She has had a father in her life. Granted, Tony is not someone I’d be proud of, but she still calls him ‘Daddy.’ There is a closeness in that word, and she is at his side in the hospital.
I find myself back on the beach, my toes digging into the soft sand as the water rushes over the tops of my feet, tickling them with its warmth. The water on Block Island was always so cold, as though reminding me I should never get comfortable. I can get comfortable here; I am comfortable here. It’s familiar: this water, this breeze, these palm trees. It’s like a cup of hot tea and toast and a favorite television show on a cold night on a remote island in Canada. Or a hike through Rodman’s Hollow on Block Island, where the shad blossom dances across its branches. But it’s a little different. This place evokes my childhood, my teenage years.
I don’t want to remember. I turn my back to the water and go back inside, shutting the glass doors, the cool air conditioning causing goosebumps to rise on my arms.
The laptop sits on the table, its cover closed. The router might no longer work, but I still have skills without having to rely on an outside device. I should be trying to find out who p4r4d0x is, whether the Tracker I saw is really Zeke, what Zeke’s real story is, but it’s as though my brain has shut down, exhausted from the day’s events.
So instead, I lie down on the bed and close my eyes, and soon I am asleep.
When I wake, it’s dark outside. I glance at the clock by the bed and see that it’s almost midnight. I’ve been asleep for four hours. I climb out of bed and go into the bathroom, splash some water on my face. I’ve done some of my best work in the middle of the night. Why should tonight be any different?
The laptop springs to life when I open the cover. I
hadn’t shut it down, and the site where I was tracking Ian’s cell phone is still on an alternate screen. I hit the refresh button without thinking about what I’m doing.
The cell phone, not surprisingly, is no longer in South Beach.
What is surprising is that it’s here.
At this address.
TWENTY-THREE
I sit up straighter and stop breathing for a second, as though whoever is carrying the cell phone is in the same room as me and, if I don’t breathe, I will be invisible. But after a few seconds, I realize how stupid this is. I am alone; no one is knocking on my door.
Still, I stare at the blinking dot on the screen. It may not be right here, but it’s somewhere very close. Panic begins to rise in my chest, and I struggle to stay calm. There is no way Ian could know that I’m here. Even if his son told him that there was a new hacker, he doesn’t know Susan McQueen. He’s only known me as Tina Adler and then Nicole Jones. Susan is a stranger to him.
But the dot continues to blink at me.
It’s dark outside, and the only light in the room is the glow from the laptop screen. It bounces off the glass doors. I didn’t close the curtains, and shadows dance across the deck. I put my hand on the laptop cover and lower it until just a small stream of light slips through the crack, bathing the room in more darkness and allowing me to see the outlines of the palm trees outside. I don’t see anything else.
I get up and move toward the doors, skirting around and gently closing the curtains until I’m shrouded inside. I stand as still as possible, straining to hear if anyone is lurking around outside.
I hear nothing. I go across the room and stand by the door that leads to the parking lot. A thick curtain covers the window next to the door. I strain to hear, but still nothing. That doesn’t mean someone’s not out there.
Betrayed Page 10