Grave Mistakes: A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller (Affair with Murder Book 3) Page 12

  Men and woman stopped their work, standing briefly as I passed, their heads tipping in my direction, my name hanging on their breath, passed from lips to cupped ears. I didn’t know how they knew me, but then realized sillily that as majority shareholder, my name would have been on a document or two. A short walk through another hall and I was standing in an office over twice the size of the original Team Two building.

  “Tell me why you changed my daughter’s address?” I asked Brian, wasting no time. He stood up without saying a word and closed the doors to his office.

  “Coffee?” he asked, walking the office’s perimeter and along the floor to ceiling windows. From my perspective, it looked like he was walking on a cloud. The sheer height was dizzying, and I planted myself at the center of his office floor, unable to get comfortable.

  “What’s going on with my daughter?” I asked, waving off the offer, feeling even more curious and even annoyed about being left in the dark. “Brian, she doesn’t realize the danger she’s put herself in by spending any time with the Wilts gang.”

  “I really thought you could talk some sense into her,” he answered in a tone that sounded regretful. “I’ve . . . we’ve been trying to talk her out of it for more than a month now.”

  “We?”

  “Becky and me,” he answered without hesitating. I sensed there was more to my daughter’s relationship with Brian and his wife than I’d ever known. “I mean, we understand the work she’s doing. And we’re damn proud of her taking on such an ambitious and challenging project, but it’s too dangerous.”

  I took to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk and sat down, the air rushing from the deep cushions. Brian sounded like a concerned parent. He sounded like a father worrying about his child’s first steps.

  Just how far in the dark am I? Had they acted like Snacks’ mother and father while I was inside? If so, should I feel grateful or jealous. The aching turn in my stomach was for the latter. But in my heart, I was grateful that Snacks had people, had someone.

  “Brian, she wouldn’t tell me anything about her work. Please, can you let me in on what she’s doing there,” I said, feeling like a third-wheel, feeling like a person left out of the conversation. “So Becky knows Snacks?”

  Brian leaned his head back, realizing that I had no idea. He nodded, answering, “She’s been staying with us on and off over the years.”

  “Is that so—” I asked, sounding jealous and not at all wanting to be that mom, that person, but I couldn’t help what I was feeling.

  “Not sure when it happened, it just did. It was a birthday party or two, your husband introduced me as Uncle Brian, and then there were invitations, and it grew from there.”

  “Is that right?” I said half-asking, giving myself a few seconds to take in the idea. I took a breath and told myself this was a good thing. It probably gave my children a foundation after I’d destroyed the only one they’d known. My mind quickly skipped forward to what Brian said about Steve reaching out to him. I mean, my husband knew of Brian, but only of his being a Team Two business partner, nothing more than that. I suppose there were a million things that happened while I was away. And I supposed I’d better get used to hearing about them.

  “Amy,” Brian said in a voice that was quiet and reserved. “I hope we didn’t overstep any bounds. Your daughter is a terrific person and we adore her.”

  I wanted to tell Brian to get his own fucking kids and leave mine alone, but what he and his wife had done was beyond anything I would have considered doing. Truth is, I was lucky to have Brian in my life. I reached out, taking his hand, assuring him I was fine with it.

  “Well, your little ploy worked. Changing the address. Snacks noticed, and it got us talking about the Wilts gang. But like I said, I couldn’t get her to tell me why she was there.” I raised my brow, my words leading to an unanswered question.

  “It’s not my place, not really.”

  “Well then make it your place,” I demanded, raising my voice. “We’re not talking about her selling girl scout cookies. It’s the fucking Wilts gang.”

  “I know, I know,” he answered. “She is doing research.”

  “Research,” I said flatly. “What for.”

  “She wanted to get her project further along before showing you, before showing anyone.”

  “Brian, what does my daughter do for a living?” I asked, trying to cut to the chase and suddenly feeling guilty for knowing so little about her life. “I’ve never asked about her school or her major, her studies—”

  “Investigative journalist,” he answered. “And we’re not talking about some weekly column for a blog with a few hundred readers. She’s the one everyone wants to be. She’d going to win a Pulitzer some day.”

  “Is she famous?” I asked, feeling even more scared for her. “I mean, investigative or not, if the Wilts’ ever find out she’s there for a reason other than—”

  “—In some circles, your daughter is a God,” he said interrupting. “But those are small circles. Nobody from the Wilts has a clue who she is. She’s been investigating them for weeks. I wouldn’t be surprised if a book deal comes out of this one.”

  I was both proud and terrified for her. And more than anything, there was a deep relief that my daughter was not one of us. She wasn’t like me or her grandmother. “I’ll take that coffee now,” I told Brian, a million thoughts racing through my head, a million reasons to feel proud and terrific at the same time. “And thank you. To you, and to Becky, for being the parent I never was.”

  “I should have told you sooner,” he said as he fixed me a cup.

  “Maybe,” I began. “But I was in prison. I’m not sure I’d want to know, anyway.”

  “Where you headed this afternoon?”

  “Well, after this, I’m on my way back to the Team Two office, but will stop by Derek Robbins’ house.”

  “Good,” he said. “We have a problem with our plan.”

  “Problem?” I asked, hearing the concern in his voice.

  “I can’t see him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Brian put a cup of coffee in my hand and sat on his desk. “Amy, if I can’t see him, we can’t infiltrate and I can’t plant any digital evidence.”

  “You mean, he’s not showing up online?” Brian nodded. “Nothing?”

  “It’s like his house doesn’t exist.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I took a sip of the coffee, expecting only the best. It was.

  “Contact me when you get there. I’m positive he’s online, but I think we’re tackling someone who knows what they’re doing. And that tells me he’s already hiding something.”

  “And if not,” I reminded him. “There is always option two.”

  Brian turned to face the window—clouds passing beneath his feet, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “I know we can put him way. I just need a chance to prove it.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  I WAS CLOSE TO WHERE Derek Robbins lived, having parked the car a few blocks away to walk the remaining mile. From the downtown Team Two offices, and to Wilma’s old neighborhood, the differences were like flashes of hot and cold, glass breaking, and not for the faint of heart. Wilma’s was one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city. My foot caught on a crack in the sidewalk and I quickly recovered my balance, careful not to bring any attention to myself. I’d left Brian’s office with a duffle bag full of cash, knowing cash was king and that it would do much of the talking for me if the need was there.

  Houses lined the street, some well tended and others abandoned and boarded up. The cars along the sidewalk were in the same shape—a few seemed immune to the poverty and stuck out like shiny silver dollars in a pile of old pennies. Music thumped from one of the shiny cars, dark paint, close to the ground, the windows rolled up and impossibly dark to see through. As I passed, I heard the motion of an electric motor as the passenger window slid down, an eruption of gray smoke spewing from the widening mouth like a v
olcano.

  “Hey Baby,” I heard from inside, but couldn’t see through the thick smoke. A laugh came next, followed by a cat-call and the words, “She looks old, but I’d do her!”

  I cringed and held my tongue, moving along on without giving the car a second look. My knees felt weak though. A little jittery. I didn’t like feeling nervous and anxious. There was a time when I’d have fed on the apprehensions, invited it even.

  A child ran up to my side next, tugging on the duffle bag, his head wet and drippy, glinting sunlight through his frilly hair’s curly pores. He wiped his eyes and gave me a bright smile. I’d give him a few dollars if I thought he’d go away, but knew it’d only attract more attention, the wrong attention.

  “Aren’t you a cute head of sunshine,” I said affectionately.

  “Head full o’what?”

  “Sunshine,” I repeated, and rustled his hair. He laughed shyly, and ran ahead of me, falling into a tumble of impressive cartwheels.

  A dozen other kids played around an open fire-hydrant, the smell of wet asphalt mixing with the day’s humidity. They darted in and out of the spray, cooling themselves from the sweltering heat. A half a block beyond the kids, the blacktop wavered and shook, heat rising as a mother carried her baby and began across the street. She made it to the center, before the black-top’s temperature became unbearable, breaking into a run until she reached the patchy sidewalk. Her baby stayed quiet until the run, but roared with laughter from the jostling.

  And it was just past the mother and child, I found Derek Robbins’ house. And across from his address, three doors down, I found the address of Natalie, a little girl who resembled Wilma’s daughter.

  “I’m here,” I said, talking into my phone, and waited to hear from Brian.

  “How close?” he asked.

  “Across the street, copy,” I answered, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing.

  “Okay, copy that,” Brian laughed. “Do you see anything outside his house? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  I scanned the face of Robbins’ house, and searched the side closest to me, comparing it to the others, hitching up onto my toes when seeing a peculiar object tucked into the corner of the patio’s cover. My investigation was interrupted with the thumping music from earlier—the car with the dark tinted windows passing in front of me, having circled around the block for a revisit.

  “Hey Baby,” I heard from a familiar sounding voice. “What’s in the bag?” I eased back onto my heels and clutched the strap, pulling it tight around my shoulder.

  I ignored the voice, and moved to the other side of a giant sycamore tree, the mottled bark peeling beneath my trembling fingers. I felt vulnerable. The car’s motor roared, growled, and the tires screeched as they sped away. I watched the car slow at the corner’s stop-sign and then turn right. They were coming around the block again and I needed to get moving.

  “I’ve been compromised,” I said, still trying to sound official, but sounded scared instead.

  “You okay?” Brian asked.

  “Just some locals taking an interest in me.”

  There was a long pause, and for a moment I thought I’d lost the connection with Brian. “I’ve got you up on the map and can see you and what I’m thinking are some kids.”

  “What do you mean you can see—”

  “Never mind that,” he interrupted. “There’s a sedan coming up the other block. The locals?”

  “That’s them,” I answered. “They’re circling. Do you see anywhere I can go? Somewhere out of sight.”

  Another pause. In my head, I imagined Brian standing in front of a large map, a game-board, with him dressed as a wizard and moving people around like game board pieces. God-Finger, I thought, hanging onto an image of him that’d gotten me through some of my prison boredom. “The Robbins’ house,” he said.

  “In the rear?” I asked and stepped onto the street’s hot asphalt before he had a chance to answer. From where I stood, there was a clear path along the side of Derek Robbins’ house, leading to a small backyard. I heard the sound of the thumping music come from the end of the street, telling me I was running out of time before the locals saw me again. “I’m already on my way. Is there anything on the other side?”

  “Just a warehouse and a line of tall trees on the properties border.”

  “Okay, I’ll be safe there,” I said as I hid just before the car slowed and then passed. If they were good hunters, they’d be back. “We can get back to work. Brian, there’s something here.” I stood on the other side of the rear steps, staring up into the corner of the patio roof. There, I found a plexiglass bulb with a lens and a flashing red light. It was a security camera. And lucky for me, I’d stayed out of view, and would remain out of view as long as I stayed tucked.

  “What is it?” Brian asked.

  “Camera,” I said plainly, adding, “A security camera.”

  “Ha!” Brian cheered, sounding enthusiastic. “I knew this guy had something to hide. He’s got to be online too. Smart though. Totally hidden.”

  “A little excited aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Oh this is so much better than the office meetings scheduled this afternoon.”

  “Glad I could oblige,” I said. “So now what?”

  A sound came from inside the house, and then from the door—a deadbolt sliding free of its metal housing. The door opened with a rush of air and Derek Robbins emerged. I tucked down, squatting with my body pressed against the brick. I turned the face of my phone upward so Brian could see the man, see our target. Wilma’s ex stood in his doorway, pushing a code into a keypad on the inside and then closed the door. He nearly filled the doorway with his round frame, grunting as he took hold of a hand rail and made his way down, step by step. I shrunk, trying to make myself small, to disappear. From his vantage point, he’d have to lean over the railing to see me. As if he’d heard me, that is exactly what the round man did. He leaned forward, his pinched face glancing around, searching for whatever took his attention. When he was satisfied with finding nothing, he walked away from his house, turning the corner and was out of my sight a minute later. Now I knew his scheduled. I noted the time.

  “Did you see the keypad?” Brian asked.

  “I did,” I answered, stretching to stand and shake the cramping from my legs. “But I didn’t catch the code he set.”

  “I’ve got it recorded, but he blocked some of it. I don’t think we will need it though.”

  “The camera?” I asked.

  “The camera,” he answered. “Can you get into a position where you can see behind the lens?”

  I went to the other side of the concrete steps, to the second railing, moving only when I was out of the camera’s view. Once I was safely behind it, I climbed the steps, holding onto the railing and brought myself within a few feet of the lens. It was an old camera, something I would have seen before I’d gone to prison.

  I brought my phone close to the plexiglass enclosure, taking a picture and sending it to Brian. The sound of glass shattering stopped my advance—caution stealing my breath like a smothering fire.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, lowering myself again, hiding.

  “Amy, what’s the matter?”

  I sighted the source of the sound and found a group of kids throwing empty bottles into the air. “Nothing,” I said, feeling nervous and exposed. “Where were we? I’m sending you a video of the camera.”

  “I see it. It’s an old one. That’s a good thing, but you’re too far.”

  “How about now?” I asked, hitching up on my toes and stretching my arm until the phone nearly touched the round device. I ducked beneath the camera’s view when the eye moved and waited for it to finish its pass. That’s when I saw the numbers—a row of paired black and white digits on the camera’s backside. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It is,” Brian answered, sounding satisfied. “And you know what else? It’s like we just got a key to the front door.”

  “What
can you do with it?”

  “Image is still a little fuzzy, just get a little closer.”

  “Tough to do without it seeing me.”

  “I remember that camera model, you’re safe as long as you stay behind it. The rotation is limited with a ninety degree blind spot.”

  When the numbers and letters were on my screen, clear and readable, I snapped a photo and sent it. “That’s a MAC address. Isn’t it?” I asked, remembering my early days with Brian, the days of learning from him, from when he’d showed me a few of his tricks. “Does the world still use MAC addresses?”

  “If it ain’t broke—” Brian began.

  “Got it!” I exclaimed and dropped back to my feet. “Now what? If Becky had never been inside, what good will the camera’s MAC address do?”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” he answered. “Your Mr. Robbins has a home network. The camera is plenty evidence of that. But he’s also got himself some serious hardware to block outside traffic, to block Becky. Smart. Very smart.”

  “And?” I asked, feeling impatient and wanting to rush things along.

  “What Robbins forgot to do was scratch out the camera’s MAC address. He’d white-listed all of his devices for access to his network, blocking out everyone else. Basic stuff for a closed home network.”

  “And you can use the MAC address to make one of our computers look like it’s the camera.”

  “That’s it,” Brian said, sounding satisfied. “Spoofing is such an old hack, but still one of the best. We can be anywhere in the world—a white-list is just that, a list. Simple stuff.”

  There was silence then, but I could hear the keystrokes as Brian plugged in the numbers and infiltrated Derek Robbins’ home network. “Did it work?” I asked eagerly.

  “I’m in . . . and I’m planting evidence like a gardener!” he answered with a raucous guffaw. “Green thumb. By the time we’re done, there’ll be enough evidence on his computers to send him to prison for years.”

  “Did you get his phone too?”