“So, Tucson?” Peter asked.
“So Tucson,” Marianne agreed. “Well, if this is happening I’ll need to hand over the information to give to your friend—and you need to leave town immediately. The longer you stay the more suspicious they’ll be. Go tomorrow, as early as possible.”
“Understood,” Peter said. “And once he’s gotten what you need—assuming he does?”
“A copy uploaded to where I tell you. I’ll know when it’s there. Then delete any other copies, burn any paper trails and get the hell back to California. And… there won’t be any way to stop you, but I recommend that you don’t read it.”
Peter didn’t say anything.
I was too tired and keyed up to absorb these instructions. I couldn’t make sense of all the implications of her plans. Too much had happened in the past two hours—two days—two weeks—for me to process any more just now, especially with a mind hazy with gin.
“Was it you who called the burner phone?” I demanded suddenly. Marianne looked surprised, then slightly guilty.
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t using it,” she said.
“That doesn’t… whose number did you program in? Is that even yours?”
“The local police department. Another fail-safe.”
I hadn’t even registered that the number had a 650 area code until now. Half Moon Bay police. What would Deputy Tom have thought about a panicked and confused call from the area’s latest cause for gossip? I couldn’t begin to imagine.
“We got rid of the item you left in Lola’s luggage,” Peter said mildly, seeming out of nowhere—until I made the connection.
I’d forgotten all about the gun, but of course if I had called the police and they somehow found it, chances were high they’d have arrested me. Marianne didn’t seem fazed by this news.
“Did you? Maybe for the best. I’m not a big fan of any deadly weapon, though they do come in handy in certain parts of the world. When I have to use one, I prefer a knife, though they like guns. Typical. Leonard even had a machine gun once, thought he was Rambo or something.”
My face must have shown my reaction to her casual observations about weaponry.
“What?” she asked. “I’ve never used it on anyone—well, except for this one time, but the guy asked for it. And he didn’t die or anything.”
“As long as he didn’t die,” I said in a hollow voice.
“Just as well you got rid of the gun I gave you, anyway.”
“We assumed it was untraceable, but still a bad idea,” Peter explained.
“Wait—so can they track our phones?” I asked, trying not to get sidetracked by the alarming new subject of bodily violence. “And credit cards? Is that why you told me not to use them and took my phone?”
She swished the ice around in her empty cocktail. I wondered if she was going to order another, but she didn’t.
“No—and yes,” she replied, sounding tired. “They can’t track phone numbers through the usual systems. But there are lots of ways to find people. If you’ve got the time and equipment it’s not hard to get into someone’s accounts and see exactly where they are—credit cards, email, social media apps. They’re monitoring most of yours—because of me. They use a couple different freelance hackers for that kind of thing, one of them told me how it works. These day’s a phone’s basically a hand-held bloody tracking device, even if you don’t check in every five minutes. If this was going to work, I didn’t want to make it easy for them to find you.”
“Oh. So my phone is gone, then.”
“It’s gone.” She made a tossing gesture with her hands. “I made sure everything was backed up, if that helps. You must’ve used one of your accounts to get here, that’s how they traced you. Sloppy, Lo. Don’t log into anything again. Not even to change your passwords. It’s not safe.”
“I won’t,” I agreed weakly, more overwhelmed than I could ever remember being.
“I’ve got to go.”
I saw Marianne pick up her bulky bag and stand, saw her looking down at us. Something in the fierceness of her gaze told me not to get up.
“Good luck,” she said briefly. “Don’t do anything stupid, OK?” She turned, then stopped. “Oh, and Lo… happy birthday,” she said. And walked quickly away.
Chapter 13
We stayed on a little while after Marianne had left, taking time to finish our drinks and look out over the city. The waiter came by once, but when we said we were fine, didn’t check in with us again. Presumably the tab had been paid. It had to have been at least a few hundred dollars—twenty a cocktail times six, along with a generous helping of appetizers… It seemed that crime did pay for good restaurants, if nothing else.
The night had grown cool, but not uncomfortably so. I slipped on my jacket and leaned into Peter’s arm, cradling my nearly-empty gin and tonic in one hand. Spread out in a tapestry around us were lights of all hues and brightness—headlights, lit windows, streetlights, signs. I knew I’d need to drink water before I went to bed, but having such high quality alcohol and a solid snack were helping keep my buzz to a low hum.
“I… can’t really believe it,” I finally said—the first sentence I’d been able to form since Marianne had gone.
“I know,” Peter said. “Honestly, if it wasn’t for what I’ve seen with Hal, I might not believe it. But having a brother-in-law who’s mixed up with violent cartels kind of opens your eyes to the fact that this kind of crime—stuff right out of a movie—is real. There really are people out there getting away with theft and fraud and murder. It’s unimaginable, but it’s there. And the humanitarian angle is clever—people are less suspicious when they think their money’s going to a good cause.”
“Yeah,” I said inadequately, relieved to hear that he understood. “So you believed her?”
“I did… as much as I didn’t want to.”
“Do you think it’s—dangerous for her to have told us the truth?”
He considered the question before answering.
“It sounds like you were already in danger from these people. Even if Marianne kept toeing the line, she could never be totally sure that they wouldn’t decide to force her hand with something more dramatic.”
“Something more dramatic,” I repeated.
“Well… Framing you for a crime and making sure you got sent away for it, comes to mind. With the right contacts, they could easily make your life inside bearable or hellish. That’d keep your cousin on a tight leash.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess it would.”
“I mean, there’s no way to know,” Peter backtracked, seeing how fixed my expression had become. “Chances are they’d have left you alone.”
“No, you’re right. It’s better to face it. They probably wouldn’t bother to kill me—not unless they found something else to use against Marianne. But that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have—have found new ways to keep her quiet.”
“She took a big risk in getting that evidence, but I can see she didn’t have any other choice. Not being the person she is.”
“Yeah. It does all make sense now. I mean, most of it.”
“I almost don’t want to know more.” We were silent for another long minute. “Do you realize the two of you aren’t actually related?”
“I guess not. Not by blood.”
I didn’t need to say that it didn’t matter. She would always be my cousin, just like she had always been my sister at heart, even though we had different parents. That didn’t change because I’d learned that our moms were stepsisters, only related by marriage. We were family, the rest didn’t matter.
Though deep down, in the dark private recesses of my heart, I felt intensely glad to not share a single genetic tie to her parents.
“What this about a birthday?” Peter asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Oh—it’s Friday. I’ll be thirty-two,” I said.
“Were you going to share this interesting little detail at some point?”
I laughe
d feebly.
“I sort of forgot about it. I haven’t been paying attention to dates for… almost two weeks, I guess. It feels like longer than that. Honestly, it just hasn’t seemed important enough to talk about.”
“Delia’s a big believer in astrology. You’re what, Cancer?”
“Gemini. What about you?”
“Virgo. September fourteenth. I have no idea what that means.”
“Me, either. I’m going to say it’s an awesome match. Truly exceptional and… er, long-lasting.”
“Here’s to that. How do you feel about spending your birthday in the beautiful and cosmopolitan town of Tucson?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“We should probably get back and see about changing our tickets.”
We were about to rise when the waiter appeared next to us, slipping something onto the table with a murmured, “This was left for you,” before moving away again.
It was a sealed envelope with the logo of the restaurant on one corner, unaddressed. I ripped it open; inside was a business card for the manager of Bar Sixty-Five, nothing else. I looked perplexedly at this, before Peter reached to gently turn it over in my hand. A series of numbers and letters had been scribbled on the back, filling the small white space—the instructions, presumably. There was also a phone number, short one digit: (601) 167-943. I recognized Marianne’s handwriting, but not the number.
“So that’s that,” I said, and tucked the card into the back of my wallet, behind all the credit cards it wasn’t safe to use.
With a final glance at the view, we left Jojo’s table (was Jojo an alias of Marianne’s? Or someone else?) and walked back to the hotel. For the first time since Monday night, I didn’t worry whether or not someone was behind us.
■ ■ ■
The following morning we rushed to put on our shoes and collect our belongings after clearing security. Our flight was leaving in thirty minutes.
“We’re cutting it close,” I murmured as we hurried toward our gate.
The flight to Tucson was already boarding when we arrived, breathless, at the gate, humbly joining the end of a long line. We’d waited at TSA for nearly an hour, until the powers that be finally relented and opened up more lanes.
I watched with rapidly growing unease and impatience as other passengers slowly, slowly filed into the jet bridge, far too many of them trying to haul oversized baggage onto the full plane, being stopped, having to check the bag. Now that the key to the evidence was actually in hand, and we were about to leave town with it, my anxiety spiked. That tiny piece of paper—and the pictures Peter had taken of it with his phone as backup—could mean our lives.
We were so vulnerable. Anyone could attack us here—not with a gun, maybe, but a jagged piece of broken glass would do the trick nicely. I couldn’t help thinking that the last person who had access to the evidence, besides Marianne, had ended up dead.
Dead, because Marianne had been connected to him. Just like she was connected to us.
I shifted restlessly from leg to leg, dropping my bag, picking it up. Would this endless line never move? Nobody arrived to wait behind us; we were going to be the last people to board. Peter was his usual calm, quiet self, but I saw the tension around his eyes. The departure time was in ten minutes… eight minutes… seven. We were going to miss this goddamn plane because these idiots didn’t know how to follow simple directions. We shuffled slowly forward. I gritted my teeth, trying not to look as irritated and panicked as I felt.
Finally, four minutes before our departure time, we made it to the gate. The airline representative glanced over our bags with a practiced eye as she scanned our boarding passes and nodded us through. I would have run down the jet bridge in sheer relief, except for the twenty other people in front of us still waiting to board.
Our seats were near the back, but luckily were on the far aisle, which was empty as we rushed down it. Peter stuffed our luggage into two of the nearest overhead compartments and we threw ourselves into a middle row, tucking my purse down at our feet and snapping on our seat belts. The kid next to me had headphones on and was doing something on his phone, not taking any notice of us. After only a minute, the flight crew came through doing a final check of overhead bins and seatbelts, and we were cleared for departure. Peter had pulled his iPad out of his bag and now opened it.
I was too restless to concentrate on a book or magazine, staring out one of the side windows. The day had been a blur so far. Peter had managed to change our flight the previous night, racking up another nearly thousand dollars on his credit card, which I hated but he was philosophical about. We still had about two thousand dollars in cash, enough to cover the fees then and there, but he continued to feel we should save it for immediate expenses and settle up later. The flight to Tucson left at ten, which meant we had to be out of the hotel before seven to give ourselves enough time to get to Newark and through TSA. This also meant that we were fighting commuter traffic the whole way there. I’d barely managed to choke down a granola bar on the train from Penn Station, feeling too apprehensive about the trip ahead of us to think about food.
I had coffee as my complimentary beverage, sweet and milky, and felt somewhat better. We shared the rest of the candy I bought before we left. Eventually I picked up my book, but still couldn’t focus my mind on the story.
“Worried about Marianne?” Peter asked, when I put the book down for the third time.
“I don’t know. Yes. No. Worried in general, I guess.”
“Tell me,” he invited, closing the flap on his case.
“It’s just… We don’t know if your friend can help, if he’ll even want to help,” I began in a low voice, “and whatever Marianne said, she can’t be positive this will work even if she does get what she needs. We’re spending all of this money flying all over the country—and I feel terrible about that. I feel terrible about what my cousin’s been through. I don’t know what to do with everything she told us. And I’m—I’m completely nervous about meeting your ex.”
Peter choked on the bite of Snickers he was chewing, swallowing before he responded.
“You’re—really? You don’t have to be.”
“It’s not logical, I know. I just… she’s important to you, and I hope she—you know, approves of me.”
He carefully set down the rest of the candy bar on his tray and took both of my hands in his.
“That’s the sweetest, most misguided thing I’ve ever heard anyone worry about. Kathe’s going to approve of you so much, I’m worried that she’s going to propose on my behalf while we’re there. You think I’m kidding.”
I laughed—though for all I knew he really wasn’t kidding, or only half-joking. His reassurance should have helped, but… I didn’t know what it was that made me nervous to meet her, exactly. It didn’t bother me that she was his ex. Maybe it should have, but it didn’t. Not only did I not for a second doubt the strength of what was between us, but I knew she’d moved on and was happily married to someone else. I wasn’t jealous or anything like it (not then, anyway). She just seemed both intimidating and impressive. She was a police detective. She solved crimes and arrested people. I was an unemployed programmer who lived in a camper.
I knew that Peter didn’t need, and wouldn’t give a damn about, anyone else’s approval of me. But how awful would it be if Kathe—and Delia—and all the people who cared about him—didn’t end up liking me? Osiris was an easy victory; he liked anyone who threw a stick for him. Other than Marianne, I didn’t really have anyone on my side to give an opinion, and she wasn’t in much of a position to judge. Anyway she’d already made it clear she trusted Peter, which I took as a whole-hearted endorsement.
Maybe it was misguided, but I couldn’t help but feel the pressure of meeting Kathe hanging over my head—adding to all the other pressures that had piled on over the past few weeks. It made all the difference in the world to have somebody to share this with, a warm hand to hold and warm body to hug. I’d felt so
alone and isolated before meeting Peter. I didn’t take it for granted how lucky I was to have met him—at all, but especially right now. I didn’t even know how to feel all the gratitude that rose up in me every time I looked at him, or thought of him, or did anything else.
But I’d also pulled him into a messy and dangerous situation. This trip was only possible because we were spending his money. True, I could cover a lot of the costs, but how much more would we need to spend? We still had to get back to California. He was taking time off work—time away from his own business, which I knew wasn’t an easy thing to do—to take these risks with me.
It was his choice, of course, but given the kind of person he was, and the connection between us, did he really have another option? If he was arrested tomorrow in connection with Hal’s crimes, would I be able to tiptoe away? Pretend like it didn’t matter, go on with my life and let him face his troubles alone?
There wasn’t a chance of that. Just like there wasn’t a chance that he’d have chosen not to help. We still hadn’t exchanged a single declaration or promise—but they were there, all the same. We were in this together.
■ ■ ■
I must have fallen into an uneasy doze at some point, because I was startled to hear the announcement that we’d be landing shortly in Tucson. I’d missed the last three hours of the six-plus-hour flight. I just had time to dash to the bathroom—meeting a disapproving but resigned flight attendant on the way—before we were circling around for the final descent. I couldn’t see much of the landscape from the center of the plane, but got a sense of blinding white light, palest blue sky, flat, sprawling city.
Once were off the plane, we quickly made our way outside, not having to wait for checked luggage. The heat was the first thing I noticed—heat and light. It had to be at least ninety, dry with broiling sunshine. I followed Peter as he turned to the right and made his way to the rental car area, noticing the clean, modern landscaping with more greenery than you might expect from the desert.
Spiders in a Dark Web Page 17