“Weren’t you once arrested for murder?”
“That was in Scotland,” he said. “I doubt the East Hampton P.D. has a relationship with Interpol. Plus, it’s raining.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Rain would’ve washed away or obscured most of my prints. It’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
But I was worried. Very, very worried.
“What do we do now?” I asked. “Other than discovering that Heather was probably murdered in her library, we got nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Gilley said.
Moving to the table with his backpack, he pulled out the tablet and tapped at the screen. I realized belatedly that he’d recorded the video feed from the drone. Using his finger, he scrolled along the feed quickly to the last few moments. I blinked several times in order not to get sucked into the dizzying effect caused by the footage, but then Gilley paused on one frame and sat back in his chair as if he’d just discovered something big.
“What?” I asked him, staring at a still of the back door with Shepherd’s blurry image about to step over the threshold.
Gilley pointed to the upper-right portion of the screen. “See that?” he said.
I looked at the screen. “What is that?” I asked.
“It’s a security camera,” Gilley said.
I sucked in a breath. “A security camera? Why aren’t the police analyzing the footage? If Heather had cameras over the doors of her home, then the footage would totally exonerate me and point to the killer!”
“This was the only camera I saw on the drone’s tour of the house, Cat,” Gil said. “But if the killer used that door to enter and murder Heather, we might be in luck.”
“Again, I’m asking why the police haven’t analyzed the footage and cleared me of any wrongdoing?”
“Either there’s nothing on the tape around the time of the murder or they missed it in their investigation, which I don’t think is likely.”
“Since they’re only looking at me as the murderer, I’d say it’s possible. How do we get a copy of that footage?”
Gilley leaned back in his chair and studied me seriously. “Given some time, I think I could hack into the system and get us a copy.”
“No way,” I said immediately. “Gilley, we’re already riding the fine line of obstruction here. Shepherd now suspects that I’m trying to tamper with the crime scene to obscure any clues that might indicate me as the killer. If we got caught, it’d be a nail in my coffin.”
“I know,” he said. “And if we got caught, it would look pretty bad. But it could also completely exonerate you, Cat.”
I sat with that for a bit. “I hate this,” I said. “It’s an impossible choice.”
“Not for me.”
“You want to take the chance.”
“I do. I’m good, Cat. I’ll make sure I hack in and get out fast, before anybody is the wiser.”
“But you couldn’t even hack into Heather’s Facebook account. How are you going to get into her security camera feed?”
“I couldn’t hack into her account before I had access to what was on her profile page,” Gil said. “Now that I know what’s on her personal page, I’m pretty sure I can figure out a password for her camera system.”
“How does that make a difference?”
Gilley shrugged. “Most people create passwords that they know they’ll easily remember. Like a pet’s name or a nickname they go by combined with their birthday. Some people even use their spouse’s name as a password.”
I reddened slightly. I’d used my ex’s middle name with his birthday as a password for years. In fact, I still had at least a few sites in my system that bore that particular password.
“But how do you even know where to start?” I asked. “I mean, where would that kind of footage be stored in the first place?”
“Probably on Heather’s iCloud account,” Gil said.
“And that’s what you’re going to hack into?”
“Yes,” Gilley said. There was a gleam in his eye that suggested he found this to be a challenge he was eager to take on.
“Won’t the police be looking into her iCloud account?” I pressed. I was scared of Shepherd seeing Gilley hack into Heather’s iCloud account in real time and tracing it back to us.
“I doubt it. They’d need her password, which they might be able to get, but if—worst-case scenario—they do notice a hack, I can make sure that it’ll look like it’s coming from Russia.”
My eyes widened. “You can do that?”
Gilley laced his fingers together and flexed them. “Child’s play.”
While Gilley was busy trying to crack Heather’s iCloud account, I busied myself with a little of my own business, paying some bills, re-posting the listing for the upstairs office space, and replying to some e-mails, and then I thought I’d check in with the boys.
I called my son Mathew first, but it went to voice mail. I tried Michael, and it also went to voice mail, but a few moments later, I did receive a text from him.
S’up?
I know all you mothers out there are simply envious of the obvious love my son shows me.
I decided to respond with an example of how one should talk over text when speaking to a loved one.
“S’up?” Are you serious with me right now, Michael? No, “Good morning, Mother. How are you? May I assist you with something?”
Three bubbles appeared immediately, and I smiled. No doubt my message was received, and I’d get a proper response from him.
S’up?
I glowered at the screen. “You little beast!”
“Did you say something?” Gilley asked.
“No,” I told him. “Not yet at least.” I then began poking out a new message with emphasis.
Shall I remind you that your phone is registered to MY name, and one call to Verizon will put your phone in lockdown?
Bubbles again.
I waited with a tapping foot until they dissolved.
Good morning, Mother. How are you? May I assist you with something?
I sighed. I’d had trouble getting pregnant. Tommy and I had tried for years until we’d gone to see a specialist who’d recommended fertility drugs. I’d taken the injections for months, and my rear end had often looked like a pincushion. When that didn’t work, we moved to IVF, which required yet more injections and one very painful procedure. When my sons were born, the feeling was so euphoric. It was almost as if I’d fulfilled the most important promise I could’ve made to myself. It was a life’s wish granted, and as I read my sweet, beautiful, blond-headed son’s text, I wondered what the heck I’d been thinking those fourteen years ago?
How’s school? I tried.
Good
Your classes going well?
Yeah
Do you still like all your teachers?
Yeah
Anyone giving you trouble?
Nah
Do you need anything? Clothes? Shoes? Food? Snacks?
Nah. I’m good.
Goodness. A two-sentence response. With punctuation. How would I contain myself?
I just tried reaching your brother. He didn’t answer.
Sleeping
All right. Well, give me a call sometime, my sweet boy. I’d love to hear your voice now and again.
K
And that was it. Our “conversation” was over.
“Who’re you texting?” Gilley asked.
“Michael,” I said, my voice squeaking with emotion while I looked through the text exchange, hunting for any hint of the little boy who used to shout, “Mom! Mom! MOM!” as he jumped off the school bus after school and dashed into my arms. Between the lines and letters, there seemed to be no hint of him. He’d been replaced by a cold, listless, alien creature.
“Aww, you miss them, huh?”
“Yes, and no.”
“Yes and no?” he pressed.
I knew Gilley could tell I was upset. Mostly I was hurt, injured by the fact tha
t my sons no longer saw me as a superhero and often saw me more as the villain. “I miss feeling like I matter,” I said to Gil. “I miss feeling like they care how I am or what I think.”
“They care,” Gilley assured me. “They just forget how to express it between the ages of fourteen and twenty-two.”
I looked up at Gil. “Is that true?”
“It was true for me,” he said.
That surprised me. “You’re kidding.”
Gilley worshiped the ground his mother walked on. I’d met his mother at Gilley’s wedding, and I’d found her to be extraordinary—and absolutely delightful.
“Not kidding,” Gilley assured me. “I don’t think I discovered how cool and fabulous my mom was until I was in my mid-twenties.”
A small weight lifted off my heart. “That’s a relief.”
“Hang in there,” Gilley said. “You’ve got a few more tough years of being treated like the enemy. Then you’ll see your sons turn into doting young men who brag about how amazing you are to all their friends.”
“I look forward to it,” I said, tucking away my phone. “How’s the hacking coming?”
Gilley rolled his head from side to side. His neck cracked, and I winced. “This may take some time,” he admitted.
“How much time?”
“A day or two.”
“That long?”
He regarded me with heavy lids. “That long? Gurl, please. In the hacking world, that’s light speed.”
“Ah. Okay, well then, I’m going to head across the courtyard to Chez Cat and read for a bit.”
“Have fun,” he said.
I headed over to Chez Cat and entered the front door, feeling a bit melancholy. Thinking of my book upstairs, I retrieved it, then settled down in the sunroom at the back of the house that offered glorious views of the ocean on all three sides.
The day was still gloomy, with a steady drizzle, but visibility out on the ocean wasn’t compromised, and the view was worth taking in.
For a long time, I simply watched the water, allowing its calming, hypnotic effect to settle around me. My thoughts at first were occupied with Matt and Mike, but then they drifted to the events of the past few days, and even the calm of the rolling seas couldn’t settle my nerves. It felt wrong to be sitting comfortably in my home while Detective Shepherd did everything he could to build a case against me.
Setting the unopened book aside, I got up and moved to one of the windows. I felt unsettled and stymied. There had to be something I could do to move our investigation forward while Gilley was busy working his hacking magic.
And then I had a thought, and as an upstanding citizen (well, mostly), it wasn’t one I really should’ve entertained, but it wouldn’t go away. I debated with myself for a good ten to fifteen minutes but finally gave in to the impulse and went in search of my laptop.
Finding it in the kitchen, I brought it back to the sunroom and powered it on. After a few clicks, I was at Joyce McQueen’s login to Facebook, and I typed in “drowssap.” It gave me an error message. Frowning, I tried again, typing out the word slowly and carefully, but again it gave me an error message.
“Did Gilley already change it back?” I said to myself.
I tried “password” and “Password,” but neither of those two worked. Then I tried “Drowssap,” and it still wouldn’t take. As a last resort, I tried “drowssaP,” and to my surprise, I was logged in.
“Eureka!”
Quickly, I moved over to Joyce’s friends’ page and scrolled down to Heather’s personal page. Hopping over, I began to read through her posts, and it was shocking to me how much personal information Heather shared among her three hundred friends and acquaintances.
That’s when I discovered something I hadn’t known before, and the revelation sent me to my feet and racing for the door.
“Gilley!” I said, coming into Chez Kitty.
“What?” he shrieked, jumping up and looking ready to race out the door.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Gilley put a hand over his heart. “Then why did you come bolting in here shouting my name?!”
I’d been clutching my laptop, and I hastily moved it over to the table to open it up and show him. “Look!” I said, triumphantly.
Gilley’s hand remained over his heart as he squinted at the screen.
“What?”
“I’ve discovered the reason Heather hated me! She used to date Nigel Fitzpatrick!”
“Um . . . okay?”
“Look!” I repeated, pointing to a man in the photo that Heather had posted on her Facebook page with a caption that read, “Thanks for the memories, loser! Nigel and I are over!”
“Who’s that old geezer?” Gilley asked.
“Nigel Fitzpatrick,” I said, waiting for him to get it.
Gilley’s gaze pivoted from me, to the screen, to me, to the screen, then back to me again. “I don’t get it.”
I sagged dramatically. “Nigel . . . Fitzpatrick!”
Gilley did that whole pivot, pivot, pivot thing again and repeated, “I. Don’t. Get. It.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “You don’t remember me going on and on about a Nigel Fitzpatrick?”
Gilley’s brow furrowed. “Okay, so that name actually does ring a little bell.”
“Nigel!” I yelled at him, wanting him to put it together.
And then Gilley’s eyes widened, and he stared at me in shock. “The old man you bought the lot from? The one who took you to lunch and said that a woman with eyes the color of the sea should live by the sea?”
“Yes!” I said, so relieved that he remembered.
“Wait, Heather dated him?”
“For two years!” I said, hopping over to her photos page and scrolling down through the months to the section that showed her and Nigel in what appeared to be happier times.
“Ick,” Gilley said. I couldn’t agree more. “Tell me again what all that was about?”
“Nigel sold this parcel to me. His best friend is on the board with me at Camp Hope for Kids—”
“The kids with leukemia camp charity you organize every year?”
“Yes. Me and four others. Anyway, Tyrone—my fellow board member—heard I was looking for property in the Hamptons, and he said that he’d just been speaking to his best friend Nigel about selling off a parcel of land that had been in his family for years and years. He owns a house on the south side of town, which he’s always adored, and he never wanted to bother with the hassle of building a new home here just for the view. He said he was tired of paying the taxes, and it was time to sell, and Tyrone would never recommend anyone less than stellar to him, so he was willing to part with the parcel for a very reasonable price.”
“Aww,” said Gil. “He sounds like a sweet old geezer.”
“He was quite sweet, but far too old for me. He asked if I’d like to see him socially, and I politely declined, even though I was worried he’d retract his offer, but he never did. He was a true gentleman and honored the verbal agreement.”
“So you never saw Nigel again after buying the lot?”
“No. I never did.”
Gilley tapped his lip. “So why would Heather have cared? I mean, the old man sold you the lot fair and square. So what?”
I frowned. “I don’t know. But there has to be a reason, and I believe that reason is connected to Nigel somehow. Maybe she saw me meeting him for lunch, got jealous, and they split up because of it.”
Gilley continued to eye me skeptically. “What’s the date of her breakup post?”
I squinted at the screen. “She broke up with him shortly after I submitted my plans to build on the lot.”
“Hmm,” Gil said. “Okay, the timing is a tiny bit suspicious—maybe the two events are linked, but I have to ask again, why would she care?”
“Well, maybe it’s simply the fact that Nigel sold this lot to me and I put a big old house on it.” When Gilley’s brow furrowed, I added, “He
ar me out. When we were headed into the luncheon the other day, I happened to notice that the ocean view from Heather’s house on the north side would’ve been obstructed when my home was built. This was vacant land before I came along, and the view must’ve been spectacular.”
“So she hated you for an obstructed view?” Gilley asked skeptically.
I sighed. Even I thought that was a bit of a stretch. “Well, it has to be something.”
“I know this might be a terrible suggestion, Cat, but have you ever thought about asking someone in Heather’s crowd why she had it out for you?”
I stared openmouthed at Gilley for a beat before managing to say, “No.”
Gil turned back to his screen. “Well, Joyce, maybe you should look through Heather’s friends’ list and find someone willing to talk to you about it.”
I stood there for a long moment just staring angrily at Gilley. At last I said, “They won’t talk to me. They all know I was accused of her murder.”
Gilley continued to gaze at his screen. “And you know this for certain because you’ve already reached out to a few of them?”
Again, I could only glare at Gilley.
“Sugar,” he said, sitting back in his chair to regard me, “what’re you always telling me are the three tenets for being a good life coach?”
My brow furrowed. Where was he going with this? “Listen, learn, lend.”
Gilley nodded sagely. “Yes. Listen and learn. Those are the things you need to be a good investigator too. Funny how they overlap.”
I rolled my eyes. “Point taken. But for the record, sometimes I hate it when you’re right.”
“I know, puddin’. But I only say it because it’s for your own good.”
“Fiiiiine,” I sighed. “I’ll go change and start calling on people.”
“Good. That’s great,” he said, getting back to his hacking.
Back at Chez Cat, I changed into neutral tones—brown slacks, brown sweater, and chocolate pumps, adding a small punch of color with an orange beaded choker—then sat down once again and surveyed Heather’s list of friends.
One face I recognized from Heather’s party was the pregnant woman I’d first met at the punch bowl. She’d seemed nice. Maybe I could reach out to her.
“Okay, Sunny D’Angelo. Let’s see if you’re willing to talk to me.”
Coached to Death Page 14