A moment later, I got his reply: I can see everything!
FOURTEEN
I LOVE OUR OFFICE. It quickly became my home away from home. I loved the look and the feel and the smell. I loved wrapping myself in it like a favorite blanket. Carlos had become a staple too, greeting me at the door, stealing ten minutes of my time to talk about absolutely nothing. With his toe pointing and his hands sculpting the air, he always made me laugh. Yet there were also days when I just wanted to go inside, to get to my computer and see what had been posted the night before.
“Sweets to the sweet,” I said, offering Carlos a latte macchiato—a favorite of his, I’d come to learn.
Pay the toll, I heard in my head. I grinned, encouraging him to take the drink. Carlos pressed his hand against his chest, his face filling with surprise.
“For me?” he asked, his fingers tapping his lips.
“You mentioned it the other day, said how much you wanted one.”
“Oh, yes. I did,” he said, and greedily accepted the coffee. “Bitch, you are going to get me fat.”
“You know you love me,” I told him, and poked the small muffin-top above his waist, teasing.
“I do,” he agreed, eagerly scooping a bit of cream from the top.
“I know.”
“Mmm, just what the doctor ordered,” he said. “If only I had a doctor to share it with too.”
“You never know . . .” I said, patting his shoulder. “Have to get up there.”
“No time to talk?” he asked. I could sense the disappointment. The toll hadn’t been paid in full. “Aren’t you the busy bee?”
“We can’t all be the queen bee,” I said, turning toward the door to unlock it.
“Don’t you know it, honey,” he laughed. “Oh, before you run—how much?”
“Neighborly treat,” I quickly answered. The deadbolt clacked, encouraging me to push. “We’ll catch up later, okay?”
“You bet,” he said with a wave as he took another sip. “We’ll catch up—have to talk about the rent.”
“You’d be so easy to kill,” I mumbled, watching him briefly as he sucked on the straw. Not that I would ever consider it—a fleeting thought is all that was. He’d become one of my favorite people. Annoying at times, but a favorite nevertheless.
“What’s that?” he asked, his face bemused, his eyes searching through the collapsing sliver of light.
“The rent,” I said. “I’ll drop off a check later.” I closed the door, thankful I made it inside. I had mommy chores in the afternoon, which left me with just a few hours to research our latest case. Theodore Holst, I think his name was.
“Carlos again?” rained down from atop the stairs. I’d come to start thinking that Nerd never went home, that he’d taken to living in the office. For all I knew, the loft had a cot beneath the workbench.
Only once had I had the office to myself so far. That day was a treat. I’d enjoyed a quiet shower in the executive-style bathroom, even discovered the showerhead with the pulsating, full-body massage setting that took me to the edge with a ruddy flush and a smile. Like I said—that day was a treat. But since then, it’d been all Nerd.
“Surprised you got by him so quickly. I’ve got the rent check made out, just need your signature. Boss.”
“Boss?” I asked, uncertain if I liked the sound of it. “Bribed him with the coffee-candy drink he raves about.” As I reached the top of the steps, I found boxes littering the floor. Tall boxes and short boxes—some open while others were taped shut. On the sides, I recognized Nerd’s handwriting and even a few computer terms scrawled in his skinny, jabbing letters. I said nothing but sensed I wasn’t going to be researching Theodore Holst anytime soon. Nerd read my disappointment and raised his hands.
“Temporary,” he said.
I lifted my brow, dropped my things on my desk, and tapped the keyboard to wake up my computer. I focused on the screen and tried to ignore the mess. The computer whirred with an electronic yawn and sent a flicker of colors to the screen, showing me the latest Deep Web links.
“I’m sure there’s a good explanation,” I finally said.
“For the loft.”
“Did you get rid of the newspaper boxes?” I asked, pushing my cursor over the screen and beginning to brainstorm about Theodore Holst’s murder. “Did you take a look at the newspapers? Maybe figure out why a law firm would keep them?”
“Still up there, but I’ve got a theory,” Nerd answered. I lifted my head to indicate interest. “The boxes were here before this became a law office. That explains why they’re so old, explains why none of them are current. They date back thirty years.”
“Thirty years?” I asked. A dark ache passed over me like cold air when I heard the number, but the distraction of my Deep Web searches drew me back to my screen. “Interesting theory—just ditch them. They’re a fire hazard, anyway.”
“Could be worth something?”
“Well, if you find anything of value then consider it a bonus,” I added as I poked the screen. “Come here and take a look at this.”
Nerd came around my desk, carrying with him the smell of tacos and sweat. At once, I could tell he’d been there most of the night, likely coding something new or gaming online with a thousand others that were just like him.
“Which case?”
“This one,” I answered, tapping the screen. I purposely left a fingerprint, knowing it annoyed him like it did Steve. He cringed and swiped at the smudge, flicking it away like an annoying bug. “Theodore Holst, the bike messenger.”
Nerd shook his head, and said, “Can’t. Not that one.”
“Why not?” I asked, trying to understand. It was one of only a few cases on our list, and I could see from the application notes that Nerd had started the profiling but never finished.
“Skipping it. We’ll find another.”
“I don’t see the issue,” I argued. “We’ve got a bike messenger who works in the city. We find his routes, his times, and make his death look like an accident. Open-and-shut case. It’s too easy not to take.”
“That’s the problem,” Nerd answered. “He’s an easy pick. Like you said—too easy.”
“It’s money,” I added, scrolling through the bike messenger’s records. The world wouldn’t miss this guy. I’d paged half the screen, finding some of what Messenger had done. It was murder that had put Theodore Holst in prison. He’d served only five years of back-to-back life sentences, then was released on an appeal that overturned the original sentencing. I scrolled further, searching for any details of the appeal, but was distracted by Nerd’s objections. He seemed overly paranoid. “This is a perfect case for us.”
“Can’t find the guy’s appeal, can you?” he asked, nudging his chin toward my monitor.
“So what? Doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I mean, Holst is out of prison, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Nerd agreed. “But it’s a hole. One of a dozen. And also, I can’t find anything on the person who posted the contract.”
“But isn’t that kind of the point about the working the Dark Net? Isn’t that what you taught me?” I argued. “We wouldn’t be in business if it weren’t for the anonymity.”
“But we’re the ones taking the risk. That’s why I wrote a profiler, so we know we can gauge the posts and avoid stings.”
“This one doesn’t feel like that,” I said. “Take a look at his rap sheet. You can’t fake murder. And you can’t fake a conviction on two counts. As for who posted the contract—has got to be family or friends of his victim, maybe both. This guy should never have been let out of prison.”
“Knowing who and why, is always better, Amy. Why risk it?” Nerd answered, kicking his toe into the floor. “Just seems reckless, too cowboy and not good business.”
I bit my lip, wanting to argue his point about my being reckless, but then I thought back to some of what I’d already done. It was all reckless.
“We’re a bit dry,” I said instead, noting how empty th
e case lists had been lately. “I say we take what we can get. And don’t forget, we didn’t always have the safety net of your profiling tool.”
He continued to shake his head, objecting again. “Man, it just doesn’t feel right. But you’re right about the cases. We should be seeing more . . . it’s like someone is handpicking what we see and don’t see.”
“Could it be your software?” I asked.
Nerd took the suggestion as an insult, a slap. He was sensitive about his work—maybe I prodded a bit at times. But when I did, it always got him motivated, and I’d get what I wanted. It was a touch manipulative. I knew what was coming next. He’d tell me it couldn’t be his software. I’d half nod, somewhat disagreeing, and it would be enough to needle him into checking his code. “Is it possible you’ve narrowed the search too far, filtered out some good cases, valid cases?”
“Please,” he answered, clearing his throat and waving off my suggestion. “My code is fine. Want to know what I think? Someone is working the lists. Someone is working us. Real or not, that case wasn’t posted by any family member. That’s what I think.”
“You mean someone is manipulating your software?” I said, prodding again. “As vast as the Deep Web is, they’ve decided to manipulate our data and target your lists?”
“I don’t know. Something’s just off,” he repeated. His voice sounded muted and tired. He turned back to his boxes and slipped a razor through a sheath of tape, adding, “Maybe we do nothing for a while? Just to play it safe.”
I considered what he said, watching while he unloaded a motherboard and soldering iron. I flicked the corner of the rent check, catching the payment amount and thought of the other bills I’d need to pay that week. On my screen, I saw how much someone was willing to pay to have Messenger killed. And more important, the world wasn’t going to miss him.
“We move forward,” I said flatly. Nerd stopped unpacking and shook his head in disagreement. “Sorry, but your hesitation is based on the idea that someone is working the same list—when it could just be a bug in your software.” He cringed, rolling his eyes and opening his mouth to object. I shot my hand into the air, letting him know I wasn’t finished. “We can disagree on this, but until you have proof, whoever you suspect, they’re a ghost.”
“But—”
“Hold on!” I said, raising my voice. A burn rose into my throat. Nerd closed his mouth and seemed to shrink into the office surroundings like a piece of furniture. I waved a handful of bills, flapping the dry paper and then slowly balling them up with my fist. “We’ve got to take the case. We’re a business now, and the rent is overdue.”
To emphasize my point, I motioned to his desk, and to the gaming computers and the wall of high-resolution monitors. But in the back of my mind, I knew he’d spent pennies compared to what I’d pay toward Steve’s law school tuition.
Nerd raised his hands in defeat. “Fine. Take the case.”
“And even if you’re right, your ghost is paying with real money. There’s no faking that. Or am I wrong?” I asked, wanting some reassurance.
“No, you’re correct. The money is solid. I checked the Bitcoin account and balances—both are valid,” he answered, nodding. “Once we’ve got the keys, the numbers, the bits in the buyer’s wallet are ours.”
“That’s good enough for me,” I said, turning my attention back to my computer. “You continue to work up whatever profile you can while I sketch a design—”
“Use the wall,” Nerd said abruptly. I didn’t understand what he meant and searched the screen, looking for a new software feature. He let out a laugh. “No, the actual wall, behind you. Look in your top drawer.” I did as he instructed, opening my desk to find a set of whiteboard markers and an eraser. I snatched them up excitedly, putting the colors of the rainbow in my hand. When I turned around, I saw what he’d been working on throughout the night.
“You did this?” I asked. My voice shuddered as a surge of unexpected emotion came over me. I rubbed my hand on the freshly painted wall. I had overlooked the whiteboard paint when I arrived. “You did this for me?”
“I’ve seen your designs—scary, but beautiful—thought a bigger canvas would help,” he explained. “And I also put a small step stool next to your desk in case you need to reach higher.”
Staring up, I could see that the whiteboard paint reached the ceiling. The fuzzy overhead light glinted off its surface. I couldn’t say anything. Having an entire wall for my Wile E. Coyote designs—that was one of the sweetest gestures anyone had ever made me.
“It’s . . . it’s beautiful, Brian,” I managed to get out.
Nerd came over to the wall, reached above me to touch the paint, testing it. “It’s ready for a test drive,” he said, pinching and rubbing his fingers. “I painted the lower areas first so it would be dry by morning.”
I hugged him then, surprising the both of us. The smell of tacos and sweat covered me, but I didn’t care. His body tensed and I could tell he was uncomfortable, startled even. I kept our embrace brief.
“Thank you,” I told him. I immediately began to draw a map of the city where Theodore Holst worked as a bike messenger. I had plenty of canvas now, and could sketch his routes and timing and plan his murder.
FIFTEEN
MY LATEST DESIGN WAS nearly complete. And as Nerd suspected, I’d needed the help of a step stool after all to reach the highest points of our new whiteboard. Every foot, every inch, every blank stretch of the canvas had been touched, erased, and touched again, detailing the planned murder of Theodore Holst. A petty thief who’d promoted himself to murderer. We never did find any details on the bike messenger’s release. Nerd raised it as a concern. I listened, but told myself it was just a matter of time before Nerd found what we needed, found what he needed to feel comfortable with the case. I stuck with what we did know—Theodore Holst had murdered a school teacher, and someone wanted him dead.
“That looks somewhat amazing.” I heard from the loft. “Looks like a map of the city.”
“Bird’s-eye view, at least. Just the beginning. I’ll plan a few trips to the city, do some research, and refine the design,” I said, turning in time to see Nerd lean over the loft’s railing. The wood creaked against his weight and instinctively I shot my hand up and yelled, “Careful!” He glanced at the banister and then back to me with a familiar expression—I’d seen it on Michael’s face from time to time.
“No worries,” he said, thumping the wood. “Solid. It’s not that far of a fall, anyway.”
“Just be careful, okay?” I warned, realizing at that moment that I needed Nerd a lot more than he needed me. He was the keeper of our money, and I had bills to pay.
“And don’t forget to save it,” he said, pointing to my design.
“Save it?” I asked, confused by what he meant.
“What I mean is, take a picture,” he answered, pantomiming the motions. I reached for my phone, loving the idea. Of course I’d save it, collect my Wile E. Coyote designs as part of Team Two’s company history. It’d be digital too—a hidden file in some Deep Web bit vault that only Nerd and I knew how to access. “And then you have to erase it and delete it from your phone. It’s not safe.”
“Erase it?” I yelled up to him, intentionally raising my voice. “Haven’t got any place to save them yet. I’ll need your help to find a place to store them. Then I’ll erase this. Okay?”
“You do already have a place to put them. Check your desktop!”
I followed his direction, moving my mouse cursor aimlessly around the screen, going nowhere.
“Down in the lower left corner.”
I continued moving the cursor until it found the outline of a folder.
“Where’d you come from?” I muttered. The folder was just an outline, disappeared when I hovered over it, like a ghost. Suddenly I was twelve again, rolling up a design for safekeeping in my secret box. I felt a smile crease my lips, the kind you can’t hold back when giddy excitement takes hold of you. Nerd wasn�
��t about to let me go through all the fun of designing on the whiteboard wall only to throw it away. He’d thought ahead and given me a place to store my work safely. And I’d been wanting a new secret box. I wanted one like the kind I’d stashed beneath the floorboards of my old room. Only now it was digital and “in the ether” as he liked to say.
“I see it . . . Well, wait. I sort of see it, and I see where you’re going with this. Love it!”
“I knew you would,” he said, clapping his hands. The sharp sound bounced off the high walls, surprising us both. “Reset assured, digital will never betray you.”
“I suppose not,” I said, agreeing. “So, I’m assuming the folder is safe?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Nerd answered. I peered up to the balcony again to find him grinning from ear to ear. “The folder—that particular folder—is hosted in oblivion. An untraceable, an unfindable search . . . An un-everything server. Better yet, anything you store in there is encrypted. So if by some miracle the Feds gained access to the folder, which won’t happen, it’d be gibberish to them. I also topped it off with just one password. If the Feds, or anyone, try to get in and miss three times . . . poof!” He threw his hands outward, mimicking an explosion while sounding a faded rumble.
“Forever?” I asked, wondering how I felt about the permanence of forever. But I did want to save a copy—save something. My gut sank, realizing the risk of saving the designs. I supposed poof was the right way to do this. I waved my hand and added, “We can’t have any traces. Nothing saved if the front door is compromised. No replication. No exports. No caches. No anything.”
“Exactly!” Nerd stated, hanging the syllables in a cheer.
I clicked on the outline, my cursor sitting on the ghost folder. A small prompt appeared on the screen, showing me a blank password field. No words to tell me what to do—just a small white box with a black cursor winking at me. I typed in my name, thinking Nerd had used something obvious as a password, expecting we’d change it. The prompt shook angrily and then shivered for second before disappearing. Strike one. I clicked on the ghost folder, forcing the prompt to appear again, then quickly entered Nerd’s name. The box shook and shivered, repelled by my offering. Strike two. When the password field showed for my final attempt, I cocked my head to the side and glared up and Nerd.
Affair with Murder The Complete Box Set Page 33