Sliver of Truth (20 page)

Just off Times Square there’s a virtual-reality arcade and Internet café called Strange Planet. It’s three stories of all the latest video games, packed all day and late into the night with geeks and weirdos. Dark and crowded, with multiple exits, it was the perfect place for a clandestine meeting with a computer nerd. The windows were blacked out, so when I slipped inside, I felt as if I had entered some bizarre future world. Surfer dudes, skater chicks, punks, and hackers all shuffled about from game to game, drinking smoothies and trying to look cool. A crowd had gathered around an overweight kid jerking in front of a kung fu game. Techno music throbbed from big speakers but no one seemed to notice. An Asian chick dancing furiously on some odd disco game seemed to be moving to her own rhythm.

In a weird way, it reminded me of some of the drug dens I’d visited in desperate searches for my brother. They were dark, inhabited by zombies concerned only with the next high. Where they were, the present moment, was lost to them; their eyes were glazed over, staring at things I could neither see nor understand. There, like here, I’d felt anonymous and invisible. Just the way I like it these days.

I jogged up a flight of stairs at the back of the building and entered the Internet café. I found a free kiosk toward the back, ordered myself a cappuccino, and checked my e-mail while I waited for Grant. I figured I’d know him when I saw him.

There was the usual crap in my in-box. I scrolled through the junk until I came across an e-mail from my father. The subject line gloated,
Having a wonderful time!
It was just a brief note from him, saying that they were in Spain and just loving the “spectacular architecture” and “glorious food and wine.” I put my head in my hand against a wave of anger so intense that I thought I might puke up my cappuccino. I hit the delete button. As usual, my parents were off in their own little world while mine crumbled around me. I was starting to understand why Ace disliked them so much. Then I saw the e-mail from Ace, subject line blank. The message read,
I can’t make it tonight, Ridley. I suggest you rethink this. Sorry.

I wrote my reply:
Coward.
I hit send. Lately I’d deluded myself into thinking I would be able to count on my family in a pinch. But I was remembering what I’d learned last year.
You’re on your own.

I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and tried Jake again. His voice mail picked up before I even heard a ring. “Oh my God,” I said softly into the phone. “Where are you?”

The café was crowded with all kinds of people—students with backpacks, businesspeople with soft laptop cases, even an elderly woman with a walker parked by her chair—their faces lit by the glow of the screens in front of them. But I’d never felt so alone. I looked at the time on my phone; Grant was already five minutes late. I had six hours until my appointment at the Cloisters—an appointment I would be keeping, as I’d feared, alone. I reached into the inside pocket of my coat and pulled out my wallet, which contained a clutter of receipts and business cards and very little cash. I sifted through the mess until I found what I was looking for: a business card given to me by the only FBI agent who treated me decently during my father’s investigation. Her name was Claire Sorro; she was older than me by about ten years. Professional and courteous, she had been kind to me when other people were cold and officious. I dialed her number and leaned into the cover of the faux wood walls around me.

“Sorro,” she answered.

“Agent Sorro, this is Ridley Jones.”

“Ridley,” she said. Her voice sounded cautious and I wondered if people already knew I’d gotten away from Agent Grace.

“I have to talk to someone about Special Agent Dylan Grace.”

“Okay . . .” she said, her voice trailing off.

“He shouldn’t be working on the case involving Myra Lyall. He has a history with Max Smiley—he believes that Max killed his mother. And he’s using me to find out if Max might still be alive.”

“Ridley,” she started. But I interrupted her. If I’d been listening to myself, I would have realized that I wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. I was assuming a lot of knowledge on her part.

“I know I shouldn’t have run away from him, but I’d be willing to come into the FBI—if he was taken off the case. Sometime tomorrow. I didn’t have anything to do with Sarah Duvall’s murder.” I took a breath.

“Ridley,” she said quickly in the pause, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“Agent Dylan Grace,” I repeated.

“I’ve never heard of him.”

My heart started to thump.

“What I do know, Ridley, is that your face is all over the news. They’re saying that you’re a person of interest in the murder of Sarah Duvall and that an accomplice helped you to escape from NYPD custody.”

“No, not an accomplice,” I said, my mouth going dry. “Agent Grace took me. I’m a federal witness.”

“Not anymore you’re not. The Project Rescue case is long closed.”

“I’ve been under surveillance for a year. Someone over there is still looking for Max Smiley. They thought he’d come for me, because he loved me.”

In the silence that followed, I realized that I sounded like a crazy person. A sad, desperate crazy person searching for a dead man who loved her once.

“Ridley,” Agent Sorro said carefully, her voice soothing, “Max Smiley is dead. You know that.”

I tried to think back on all the things Dylan Grace had told me and suddenly it all seemed nebulous. How much had I filled in with my own imagination? How much had he really said? I told her how he’d showed me his ID on the street that day and took me in for questioning, about the photographs, how he was trailing me, how he’d had access to my phone records, how he’d taken me from the police precinct. I must have sounded hysterical, possibly delusional. I wondered if she was tracing this call, if she could triangulate the signal and figure out where I was.

Another heavy silence followed. “What did you say this man’s name was again?”

“Dylan Grace,” I said, feeling more and more foolish by the second. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve never heard of him?”

“I’m telling you I’ve never heard of him,” she said. “And I’m looking on the database now.” I could hear her fingers tapping on a keyboard. “There’s no one listed in our files by that name. No one named Dylan Grace works for the FBI anywhere in the U.S.”

I let the full impact of the information register. For a moment, I wondered if I’d imagined him altogether, if
all
of this was just a figment of my imagination. Maybe I should check myself into a hospital somewhere, get some meds.

“Listen, Ridley, it sounds to me like you’re in more trouble out there than if you turned yourself in. The NYPD just wants to
talk,
” she said with a slight singsong quality to her voice that told me she thought I’d gone over the edge. “I’ll meet you somewhere and bring you in if you want. We’ll get it all worked out. We need to find out who this guy is, why he’s been impersonating an FBI agent, and what he really wants from you. We can help each other.”

Just then I heard the lightest click on the line. It brought me back to myself. I weighed the pros and cons of just turning myself in. She was right; I’d probably be safer. But part of me had already decided that this meeting at the Cloisters was the only way to Max. Something inside me had seized on that, and even though I had no reason to think it was true, I just couldn’t let it go. If eight o’clock came and went and I wasn’t at the Cloisters, Max would elude me forever. I wasn’t sure if I could live with that.

“Okay, Agent Sorro, thanks,” I said.

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Um . . . I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

“Ridley—”

I ended the call then and sat there for a second, every nerve ending in my body tingling, my stomach in full rebellion. I had been lied to and tricked by Dylan Grace, my imaginary friend. I didn’t even know how to react or what to think. Oddly, I didn’t even feel that shocked or betrayed. In a way, I guess I had always expected him to be something other than what he appeared to be. It was almost a relief to know that I had been right about him.

I scanned the room around me. No one was looking in my direction, everyone hyper-focused on the screen in front of them. I wanted to scream for help, but of course I didn’t. Then I saw a young guy huffing and puffing his way up the stairs. He was pasty and soft but had a pretty face framed by a mass of golden curls; he wore tiny round silver spectacles. I was sure it was Grant. I felt scared suddenly that I’d led the poor kid into danger, that I’d wind up kneeling over his dead body on the floor. I thought about bolting, but he saw me and made his way over.

“I knew it was you,” he said as he sat down heavily. He took off his glasses and wiped them on the hem of his T-shirt. His shirt read
THE ONLY THING NECESSARY FOR EVIL TO TRIUMPH IS FOR GOOD MEN TO DO NOTHING
.

I didn’t say anything just out of surprise that he’d recognized me.

“Man, you are in some serious shit.” I heard admiration in his voice. “You must have done something pretty fucked up in another life to have this much trouble raining down on you again.”

I thought it was a pretty insensitive thing to say and told him as much.

“Sorry,” he said. “You’re right. How’d you slip the NYPD?”

I was taken aback by his question. It really
was
all over the place. Part of me had been hoping that Agent Sorro was exaggerating or even making it all up, part of some elaborate ruse to cover up a secret investigation into Max’s alive-or-dead status.

“I didn’t
realize
I was slipping them,” I said defensively. “I thought I was being taken into federal custody.”

He cocked his head and looked at me. “What do you mean?”

I told him the whole story, starting from the day Dylan approached me on the street, ending with my leaving him in Riverside Park. I even told Grant about the text message and my meeting at the Cloisters.

“Man,” he said, shaking his head. “This is bigger than I thought.”

He was enjoying this a little too much. It was annoying me.

“Pretty brave of you to come, considering a number of people I have come in contact with during the last few days are dead or have disappeared,” I said, paying him back for his earlier comment.

“No one’s going to touch me. I’m too high profile,” he said with a casual shrug and uncertainty in his eyes. I thought he might be kidding. Did he really consider himself high profile? I almost laughed but saw he was serious and gave him a knowing nod.

“Of course you are,” I said. He didn’t seem to hear the sarcasm in my voice.

“How did you hear about me? My website?”

“No,” I said. “Jenna Rich told me about you.”

“Oh,” he said, looking embarrassed. I wondered if he’d heard through other sources the not-so-nice things she had to say about him. I felt bad for him suddenly.

“She said you were a computer genius and that you had some interesting theories about Myra Lyall. I looked on your site and thought you might be able to help me.”

He seemed to brighten at this a bit. “Help you how?” he asked, leaning forward with alacrity.

I typed in the URL on my borrowed computer and up popped the red screen.

“I need to know what this website is,” I said. I told him about the streaming video of Covent Garden that I’d seen on Jake’s computer.

He slid in closer to me, pushed his little glasses up toward his eyes, and he smelled not unpleasantly like Krispy Kreme doughnuts. There was something teddy-bearish and appealing about him. He tapped away on the keyboard for a second and two small narrow windows opened. A curser blinked in one of the blank white spaces, waiting for a prompt.

“It’s waiting for a log-in and password,” he said, turning to look at me.

“How did you do that?” I said with grudging admiration.

He blew out arrogant disdain from his nostrils. “This is your basic cloak-and-dagger program. Wannabe spy shit one-oh-one.”

I noticed a sheen of sweat on his forehead and wondered if he was nervous or just hot. He was pretty out of shape, the room was over-warm, and even I’d felt a little breathless after the flight of stairs.

I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s called steganography, deriving from the Greek, meaning ‘covered writing.’ It’s a way to embed messages within other seemingly harmless messages. There’s software, like Noise Storm or Snow, that allows you to replace useless or unused bits of data in regular computer files . . . like graphics or sound, even video. I just tabbed around until I hit the window where the prompts were hiding.”

I looked at the prompts, my mind already working on what my father’s log-in and password would be. Probably the same as his home computer; he’s nothing if not predictable. I reached for the keyboard.

“Wait. Don’t just make a quick guess. If you enter the wrong thing, you might alert the webmaster of an unauthorized attempt to enter the site. The prompts or the site itself might disappear altogether.”

I just looked at him, withdrew my hand.

“This is not typical of steganographic sites, though,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “I mean, usually it would be masquerading as something else, like a porn site, or even a mystery bookstore. Then messages would be hidden in elements of the site, like I said . . . images or sound files.”

“Or streaming video,” I said, thinking of Jake’s computer. He nodded.

“Those messages might be encrypted on top of that. There’s a program called Spam Mimic. Say there was a message waiting for you at a site like this. You’d get a message in your in-box that would look like ordinary spam that most people would delete. But you’d know it was an alert to check the site.”

I thought about my father’s computer, all the junk mail there. I wondered if one of those spam messages had been an alert that a message was waiting for him.