Authors: Andrew Grant
Unless Carolyn was the one who’d planted the camera
.
“I’m afraid so. But I’m not surprised. Video increases the value of the intel tenfold. And it would be very sloppy to rely on a single device. If it were me, I’d have placed at least four in a room like this. In particular, I’d want one covering the desk. I presume that’s where your computer usually is?”
“Yes. But there’s no other furniture anywhere near the desk. Where would you plant it?”
“Maybe in the light?” McKenna suggested.
McKenna’s guy held the sniffer up, but it remained silent.
“What about the desk lamp?” McKenna asked.
The guy tested it, but again came up dry.
“There isn’t anywhere else,” I said.
“There is one place,” McKenna countered.
“Where?”
“How long has that been there?”
“What?”
“The painting. Do you ever take it down? Store it when you’re away? Have it cleaned?”
“No. Never. It hasn’t been moved since I bought it. And no one ever touches it besides me.”
Unless … Carolyn had always hated that picture. And if Weimann had revealed the role she’d played in me buying it …
“It’s in the perfect position.” McKenna pointed to the painting, and then my desk. “We have to check it.”
“No.” I stepped forward, as if I could somehow protect it from something that might have already happened. “No way. Please.”
“We have no choice,” McKenna said. “But would you feel better if you did it yourself?”
McKenna stepped back, out of the way, and his guy handed me the machine. I lifted my arm, and swept it along the bottom edge of the frame. I was praying for silence. The thought of someone vandalizing my Lichtenstein—inserting things into it, using it to spy on me and maybe Carolyn—made me sick.
I moved the machine all the way to the right-hand side without triggering an alarm. My arm trembled with relief. Desperate to be
done, I swept back the other way, faster, about six inches higher. Still no sound. I kept on going, back and forth, higher and faster each time, until I’d reached the top of the painting. And uncovered nothing. I laid the device down on the desk—gently, as if there was a danger it would trigger itself out of spite if I banged it around—pushed my chair back with my foot, and sat down without a word.
THEY GAVE ME A MOMENT
to collect myself, then McKenna’s guy shook my hand, put the sniffer back in his case, and left.
“You’ve been through a lot today, Marc.” McKenna took a business card from his pocket and held it out to me. “If you need to talk about anything, here’s a number for someone you can trust.”
“No, thanks. I’ll be fine. I’ll talk to my wife when she gets home. Or to a friend. I’m seeing a couple of them for lunch tomorrow. Old friends. Good listeners.”
McKenna shook his head.
“Sorry, Marc, but you can’t mention this to your wife. Or anyone else. There’s too much at stake. If you need to talk, call the number on the card. OK?”
“I guess.”
“Good. And I’m going to leave you my card, as well. I doubt you’ll have any more trouble, but if anything does happen, I need you to call me right away. Night or day.”
“OK. Thanks.”
“Remember, call
me
. Not those detectives you met. Our resources are far superior. And we’re dealing with something way above the locals’ pay scale here.”
“Understood.”
“Excellent. Now, I have just one other thing. That AmeriTel data we talked about? I’d still like to take a look at it. So if any of it shows up anywhere—any other old memory sticks, computer discs, email attachments, whatever—call me. Immediately. It’s important.”
“I will. Absolutely.”
“Great. In that case, I’m done here. I’ll get out of your hair.”
——
THE AGENTS’ TIRES CRUNCHED
across the gravel, more cautiously than Carolyn’s had done yesterday, but an unwelcome reminder of her departure nonetheless. I glanced at my Lichtenstein, still relieved that it hadn’t been violated—by her, or anyone else—but my eyes were playing tricks on me. Instead of the blond woman’s face, I saw my own. I was the one falling into the abyss. Losing the love of my life? Or even my grip on reality?
What the hell had just happened?
Why was McKenna so interested in the AmeriTel data? LeBrock had been desperate to get it back, too. And what about Carolyn? Was it the data everyone had been after all along? I’d thought my work was the target. But if it wasn’t, why was Carolyn dining out with Weimann, my old rival?
More to the point, why was my wife dining out with another man?
How naive had I been?
N
ORMALLY, I CAN’T STAND DEALING WITH MUNDANE HOUSEHOLD
crap.
Cleaning, gardening, plumbing, electrical work—I leave Carolyn to find people to take care of it. But without Carolyn, and after a night without a wink of sleep—when the house was alive with creaks and groans, as if the structure itself were mourning her absence—I had no choice but to get on the case myself.
Two cups of strong coffee, a Google search, and one conversation was all it took to hire a locksmith, and he was parked on the driveway unloading his tools before another hour had passed. It seemed like he knew his business, although whether Agent McKenna would think the ridiculously expensive Centurion Elite he installed would be secure enough, I hadn’t a clue. It didn’t look any more substantial than the old lock, to me. And given the guy’s constant, annoying attempts to make me admit I was doing the work because I’d caught my wife cheating and kicked her out, I was certain I wouldn’t be employing him again anytime soon.
The locksmith was clearly putting two and two together and getting fifty—at least I hoped he was—but his faulty logic did spark another thought that was actually useful. I didn’t want Carolyn to come home, find the locks had been changed, and jump to the wrong conclusion. I was tempted to call her and explain, but didn’t trust myself not to confront her about Weimann. Not yet. It was a conversation that called for a cooler head. So, I sent her a text. And I was
deliberately vague about how my keys had come to be lost. I didn’t think she’d see me sleeping through a break-in on my first night alone as evidence of increased awareness—of myself, our marriage, or anything else.
THE IDEA OF SEEING
old friends for lunch was a welcome distraction from the events of the last couple of days, but as I was driving to the restaurant I found myself struggling to decide how much to tell everyone about my new situation. Vincent—the oldest of our group—had come through a tough childhood, and talk of the police and burglaries could quickly put us on the opposite sides of an argument. Jonny—who seemed to start a sickeningly successful new business every fifteen minutes—was ultra-competitive. He always wanted to show how he had the best watch or the fastest car. I could just imagine him seeing my brush with Homeland Security and raising me an encounter with the CIA. And Sally-Anne—the only woman—worked in telecoms, just like Carolyn. Their paths crossed pretty regularly at industry functions, and I wasn’t sure I wanted our personal problems leaking into my wife’s professional world.
WHAT A WASTE OF TIME
, worrying about people’s feelings, I thought, getting back into my car exactly forty-six minutes after we were due to have met. Talk about an exercise in futility. Because not one of my
friends
had shown up. And not one had called to cancel. They’d just left me to sit on my own at our usual corner table, trying to deflect the waitress’s pity and avoid eye contact with the smirking twenty-somethings at the bar.
None of my
friends
had taken my calls, either. I had to make do with a muddle-headed text from Sally-Anne trying to convince me they’d thought I wouldn’t want to meet, following what had happened with AmeriTel. I didn’t know which was worse—being stood up, or realizing that my problems had become nothing more than grist for the local rumor mill.
——
THE EIGHTIES CHANNEL PROVED
a much better companion on the drive home than any number of fair weather friends, and by the time I pulled into my driveway I was feeling a lot more focused. Work was what I needed next. Something to reconcentrate my mind. But ironically, I was dependent on something else that wasn’t there. My computer. Either of my computers, in fact. I was tempted to head into the city and buy another one—you can never have too many—when I spotted a business card wedged between my front door and the frame. I went to investigate, hoping it would be from the messenger who had my delivery from AmeriTel. But instead, it was from the police. On the back there was a handwritten message, signed by Detective Hayes:
Mr. Bowman—please call me ASAP re yr computer.
Important!!! Thx.
I took the card inside with me and tried to call the detective, but was routed through to an administrative assistant who wanted to schedule a time for me to come down to the station house in person. She claimed not to know if I’d be able to take the computer home with me afterward, but her tone was evasive. My inner cynic was alerted, and when I hung up I was left with no confidence I’d be getting my hands on my property any time soon. So, unless I fancied a long drive to the store, my only other option was to try AmeriTel again.
I called the same sequence of phone numbers as yesterday, and with each failed attempt I felt a little more of my newfound enthusiasm drain away, only to be replaced with frustration and anger. The final straw was the conversation I had with an idiot on the IT helpdesk who insisted my things had already been delivered. I didn’t actually beat my head on the desk at the end of the call, but believe me, I was close.
I really wasn’t looking forward to schlepping all the way to the city, parking, and dealing with the crowds and the salespeople and everything else that computer shopping entails, but I didn’t see that I had a choice. Not unless I wanted to be unemployed for the rest of my life,
or remain trapped in the AmeriTel/police department’s telephonic equivalent of
Groundhog Day
.
I grabbed my jacket and made my way back down the hallway, but stopped when I drew level with the dining room door. A tempting thought had popped into my head. I didn’t need to go to a store to buy a computer. Why not just order one on my phone? And if I didn’t have to drive anywhere, it wouldn’t matter if I had a little something to drink. You could argue it was a little early in the afternoon to really cut loose, but these were special circumstances. And it had to be after five somewhere in the world …
I crossed to the liquor cabinet and reached for the Patrón. A second bottle of tequila. A second day without Carolyn. That seemed like a reasonable ratio. Until I started wondering where she was. Because that opened the floodgates to a cascade of darker questions. Who was she with? What she was doing? And had she only betrayed me for a paycheck? Or for personal reasons, too?
I pulled the fancy presentation box from its shelf, but when I tried to open it I saw the seal at the top had already been broken. It had been hacked through, clumsily, by a small, thin blade. And inside I heard something rattle, metal against glass.
I carried the box to the table, holding it at arm’s length as if it might explode at any second, and cautiously opened the lid. The bottle of tequila was still there. It was still full. And, lying next to its neck, jammed up against the cardboard wall, was my key ring. The door key was still attached. So was the second memory stick. And so was the little Swiss Army knife Carolyn had given me two nights ago at the restaurant, before she disappeared.
Seeing the knife triggered a few other memories. I’d done more than just think about this second bottle, after Carolyn had left. I’d gone as far as opening the box, using the new penknife to cut my way in. Not the most efficient tool for the job, judging by the result. And having struggled through such a simple task, discretion had proved the better part of valor. I’d decided on an honorable retreat. I’d closed the box and shoved it back in the cupboard, where it belonged. But, it would seem, without realizing I’d dropped my keys inside.
For what must have been the second time, I returned the box to its
shelf without opening the bottle. On this occasion, though, I held on to the key ring. I let it swing from my index finger for a moment, like a hypnotist’s charm. Then I closed my fist around it while I thought things through. Its presence seemed significant. It meant I’d lied—albeit unintentionally—to the police, because it clearly hadn’t been stolen, after all. And I’d lied to Homeland Security. It meant I’d suffered the expense and inconvenience of changing the front door lock for no good reason. But it also meant I still had test data to work with. On the memory stick. Only half as much as I’d originally had, but enough for the time being.
The next question was, what to do about it? Should I call the detectives, and set the record straight? I could. But what would be the point? They hadn’t been burning much rubber since they’d interviewed me. If they heard that the only tangible item I’d claimed to have lost in the break-in wasn’t missing, after all, they’d take it as vindication for their low-energy approach to the investigation. Plus, the way they’d treated me so far, they’d probably arrest me for wasting their time.
I could try Agent McKenna, at Homeland Security. He’d said he was above the detectives in the pecking order. He’d been more dynamic, grabbing me off the street and sweeping my house clean of bugs. He had more manpower on display. And he’d made me promise to tell him if any more data came to light. Something to do with his ongoing investigation into AmeriTel. Which meant calling McKenna could conceivably derail some kind of terrorist activity. It could possibly save lives. And, perhaps, land Roger LeBrock and his backstabbing cronies in hot water.