The Short Drop (18 page)

Gibson lay flat on his stomach and watched Jenn and Hendricks peel off matching jumpsuits. He was on the roof of a storage unit at the far end of Grafton Storage that offered an unobstructed view of Jenn and Hendricks’s little operation. He didn’t know precisely what was happening to Tate, but he had a pretty good idea. The fact that it required ski masks made him a little sick. Tate was vile. No question. But that didn’t justify whatever was happening down in that storage locker.

So why hadn’t he called the police? The timer on his moral high ground had long since counted down. He might not be down in the trenches with Jenn and Hendricks, but at this point he was every bit as guilty. How far was he willing to let this go if it meant finding out what Tate knew? Where was the line?

He felt his phone buzz and put down his binoculars. He was expecting a call from ACG at some point. He’d called on Monday to ask if he could keep the car for an extra week, maintaining his ruse that he was back in the DC area. George’s assistant had said he’d get back to Gibson, but there’d been no word since. Apparently ACG had other things on its mind.

He looked at his phone; he was half-right. It was a text, and it was from ACG, but it had nothing to do with the car. The beacon virus that he’d embedded in ACG’s files had gone off.

The text was a long spool of data and ended with GPS coordinates. His original virus’s instructions had been to install itself onto the hacker’s machine, cover its tracks, and use the host machine’s GPS to phone home. But that hadn’t happened. Instead it had been downloaded and remained dormant ever since. That’s why they’d resorted to staking out the library.

The original virus had been a long shot anyway, and Gibson hadn’t been surprised when it hadn’t gotten a hit. It would have required the subject to open ACG’s files on a machine with an Internet connection. But the hacker had done what Gibson would have done, which was take the downloaded files somewhere safe and look at them on a stand-alone computer.

For it to go off while Tate was locked up confirmed Gibson’s suspicions. His virus couldn’t self-activate. For it to phone home now, someone would have to intentionally connect it to the Internet. It sure as hell wasn’t Kirby Tate. So who? Who had just rung the dinner bell?

Gibson focused his binoculars back on Jenn and Hendricks, who were locked in a heated discussion. Hendricks was pointing angrily at the unit where they had Tate. Jenn had both hands, fingers interlocked, on top of her head in a gesture of disbelief.

Not the text message you were expecting either, was it?

Gibson tried to put the pieces together. If the virus had gone off now, then it meant that another player was involved. Tate had a partner. Someone who knew computers and had activated Gibson’s virus either by mistake or on purpose. His money was on on purpose. But why?

If it was on purpose, then the partner knew Tate had been taken. Activating the virus might be a signal to lead them away from Tate. Unwilling or unable to risk a call to the police, the partner was doing the next best thing in trying to divert suspicion away from Tate and, in so doing, saving his life. Make them think they’d grabbed the wrong guy.

And give himself away? It just didn’t make sense. He and Tate would have to be awful close for the partner to stick his neck out like this when he could just give them Tate and slip away. Unless Tate wasn’t his partner at all but a pawn. In that case, what was WR8TH’s play?

Gibson gave up trying to calculate all the permutations and went back to the binoculars. Jenn and Hendricks had settled on a plan. They squared Tate away and shut him up in his storage unit like a box of old clothes. In half an hour, the two were back in street clothes. They made their usual exit from Grafton, with Jenn going over the wall and unlocking the gate for Hendricks in the SUV.

When they were gone, Gibson dropped off the roof and jogged to where they were holding Tate. They had locked him in but hadn’t locked the unit where they were staying. He found the keys on a hook just inside the rollaway door. He wondered what he would find in there. He didn’t know, but he hoped there was still enough of Tate left to answer his questions.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hendricks took the Pennsylvania Turnpike toward Pittsburgh. Jenn paged through her notes, trying to make sense of what had happened and hoping she wouldn’t rue the decision to send Gibson back to DC. She could have really used his expertise right about now. She ran her tongue across her teeth while she thought. For once, Hendricks was quiet, the possibility that Tate was the wrong guy too horrible to contemplate.

“Tate is no angel,” Hendricks said.

She didn’t answer and flipped to another page in her notebook.

The GPS coordinates that Vaughn’s virus provided led them to North Huntingdon—an older, established suburban neighborhood outside Pittsburgh. Mature, stately trees shaded the streets, and the lawns were expanses of perfect green. Luxury vehicles were parked in every driveway.

“All this needs is a lemonade stand,” Hendricks said.

The GPS coordinates led them to 1754 Orange Lane, a broad two-story Tudor with white trim. A police car was parked in front, and Hendricks kept driving. At the end of the block he pulled over to the curb, adjusted his mirror, and sat back to watch.

“This is the house?” Hendricks asked.

“If Gibson’s virus is accurate.” She called Rilling and had him look up the tax records on the house.

Twenty minutes later, an officer emerged from the house with a man and woman following him. The couple appeared to be in their early thirties, and even from a distance it was clear they were unhappy. The man shook hands with the officer while his wife clung to her husband’s arm. They stood out on their porch until he drove away. The woman waved good-bye.

Jenn’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Rilling. The house was owned by William and Katherine McKeogh. She showed it to Hendricks.

“What do you think?”

Hendricks waited until the couple went back inside, turned the car around, and parked across the street from the house.

“Only one way to find out,” he said, getting out.

An elderly woman sitting on her porch put down her book and waved to Jenn. She waved back politely. Friendly neighborhood. Guards down. Welcoming. She followed Hendricks across the street and up the front steps of 1754 Orange Lane. Hendricks rang the doorbell and stepped back from the door. He shook out his neck like he was limbering up for a fight. As the woman opened the door, Hendricks put on a warm, friendly smile that Jenn had never seen.

“Can I help you?” Katherine McKeogh had a kind face and large brown eyes. Her hair was pulled back with an emerald bow.

Hendricks retrieved a business card from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to her.

“Sorry to bother you at home, ma’am. My name is Dan Hendricks. This is my partner, Jenn Charles. We were hoping to ask you and your husband a few questions.”

“Are you detectives?” she asked, looking at his card.

“No, ma’am. ACG is a private firm. We’ve been contracted to consult with the local police department and evaluate their procedures.”

“Oh,” she said, handing the card back. “But an officer was just here.”

“We’re not police, ma’am. We’re doing follow-ups. It’s part of a countywide initiative to improve services. We were in the area and thought we’d stop in and see if we could take a report while it was fresh in your minds.”

“He was very nice. I don’t want to get him in any trouble.”

Hendricks smiled sweetly. Jenn was starting to see why he’d had one of the highest case-closure rates in the LAPD. His transformation bordered on disturbing.

“I understand completely,” Hendricks said. “This isn’t really about him, or any particular officer for that matter. We’re just looking for ways the county can improve and enhance their interactions with the community.”

“Kate? Who is it?” A man’s voice from inside the house.

“Some detectives with questions,” the woman called back into the house.

“We’re not detectives, ma’am.”

A moment later, a tall, thin man in chinos and a polo shirt came to the door.

“What’s going on?”

“Bill, these folks want to talk to us about the officer who took the report on our break-in,” Mrs. McKeogh explained.

“Sir. My name is Dan Hendricks, and this is my partner, Jenn Charles.” He extended a hand, which Bill McKeogh shook.

Hendricks caught Jenn’s eye while he repeated his spiel about consulting with the police. Making it very clear that they were not, contrary to his wife’s impression, detectives. The McKeoghs didn’t strike Jenn as child-kidnapping pedophiles. They would have been in their early twenties when Suzanne disappeared.

The McKeoghs were more than happy to help. Hendricks produced a notepad and took notes as he asked a series of questions about the responding officer’s demeanor, helpfulness, and attention to detail. Jenn played along, asking follow-up questions to coax the details of the break-in out of them. Like most victims of minor crime, the McKeoghs were eager to discuss it.

Mrs. McKeogh had come back from the grocery store and found the back door jimmied open. She’d called the police, and her husband at the office, which was only ten minutes away. She’d waited out front until the (very nice) officer arrived. The (very helpful) officer confirmed that the back door had been jimmied open and did a sweep of the basement and upstairs before letting them reenter the house. It didn’t appear that anything had been taken, although there hadn’t been time yet to look carefully. They didn’t have a lot of cash or expensive jewelry in the house.

“The officer said it was probably just kids.”

“Why?” Jenn asked.

“Because there was no damage inside the house,” Mr. McKeogh said. “The officer told us that in most robberies speed is the main concern, so they would have ransacked the house. The officer said the house should be a disaster. Drawers dumped out, pictures thrown on the floor, looking for anything valuable. Usually there’s a lot of damage, he said.”

“And you’re sure nothing is missing?” Hendricks asked.

“No, not for sure. We really just started checking.”

“The officer gave us his card and said to call him if we realized something was gone,” said Mr. McKeogh.

“May I see it?” Jenn asked.

Mr. McKeogh handed it over. Jenn copied down the officer’s information and gave it back.

“What about electronics? Any computers in the house?”

“We have a stereo and a couple of TVs. My wife has a laptop, and we have a desktop set up in the family room for the kids.”

“We don’t want them looking at the Internet where we can’t see them,” Mrs. McKeogh said.

Hendricks asked, “So your computers are password protected?”

“Mine is, but the family room computer isn’t. Why?” Mrs. McKeogh asked. “Do you think that’s what they were after?”

“Anything’s possible. You should probably check it to be safe.”

Mrs. McKeogh went back into the house. She returned a minute later shaking her head. The computer appeared normal.

“Mind if I take a quick look at it?” Jenn asked.

The computer sat on a small wooden desk in the living room. It had an old CRT monitor. The tower sat on the floor beside the table, its front-access USB panel cover hanging open.

“Do you mind?” Jenn asked, indicating the keyboard.

The computer was in sleep mode. Jenn hit the space bar. The hard drive spun to life, and the monitor flickered on. Someone had opened a Word document and typed two words: “Terrance Musgrove.”

The McKeoghs glanced at each other.

“Do you know him?” Jenn asked.

“No,” Mr. McKeogh said. “Well, not exactly.”

“We bought the house from him,” Kate McKeogh said.

“From his estate,” her husband corrected.

“We bought the house from the estate. It’s kind of sad. I don’t really know the whole story,” she said.

“It was only the second house we looked at. We lowballed them, figuring they’d counter, but they took it. It was a steal to be honest. Thirty-day closing. Nothing like a motivated seller.”

“Any idea why?” Jenn asked.

“It’s a touchy subject in the neighborhood. No one really talks about it,” said Mrs. McKeogh. “But we found out later . . . you don’t like to feel you’re capitalizing on someone else’s misfortune. It’s not the kind of thing you want to bring into your home. Bad energy.”

Jenn cocked an eyebrow at them.

“He killed himself,” Mr. McKeogh said.

“William,” Mrs. McKeogh said in a shocked voice.

“Well, he did. In the house somewhere. Why we got such a good deal. It sat vacant while his siblings figured out what to do.”

“What happened to him?” Hendricks asked.

Mr. McKeogh shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. It’s not something the neighborhood likes to talk about. Just a tragedy.”

“And I don’t want to know,” Mrs. McKeogh interjected. “It’s in the past. It might have been one of the kids’ bedrooms. Then what would I do?” Mrs. McKeogh shut down the computer. “There. That’s better.”

Jenn felt her phone vibrate. She stepped away to check it. It was an automatically generated text message from ACG saying that Vaughn’s virus had gone offline. She nodded to Hendricks, who wrapped things up with the McKeoghs. They all shook hands at the front door, and Hendricks and Jenn walked down the driveway. Jenn showed Hendricks the text message.

At the end of the driveway, Jenn turned back to the couple.

“One other thing,” she said. “How long have you lived in the house?”

“Nine years in April,” Mrs. McKeogh said.

“And how long was the house vacant?”

“About two years,” said Mr. McKeogh.

“Ah, okay. Thanks for your time.” Back in their vehicle, Jenn turned to Hendricks. “Where does that rate on your strange meter?”

“What? That someone broke into a random house on gingerbread lane to download Vaughn’s virus onto a kid’s computer? All in broad daylight?”

“Yeah, that,” she said.

“About an eleven.”

“But they’re not suspects. We agree on that?”

“Those two? Yeah.”

“So why do it? Why here?”

“Maybe someone’s playing with us. Letting us know he’s too smart to be caught. Spinning us in the wrong direction.”

“You think he’s just showing off?”

“Well, this fits my definition of a wild goose chase.”

“I don’t know. That’s a lot of risk. Break into a house? In this neighborhood? In broad daylight? And for what? To waste a couple hours of our time? Doesn’t seem worth it.”

“Maybe he’s making an alibi for Tate. Possible there’s two of them.”

“That we know of. There’s a lot you can do in a couple hours,” Jenn said. “We should get back to Grafton.”

“Agreed.” Hendricks started the engine but left it in park. He stared at his partner. “What?”

“I’m going to talk to the neighbor.”

“The old lady?” Hendricks asked. “What for?”

“I need to know what Terrance Musgrove has to do with any of this.”

It was forty minutes before she got back in the car.

“Did she give you her recipe for snickerdoodles?”

Jenn held up a finger to him as she took out her phone and called George. She explained the situation to George as Hendricks listened.

When she finished, George asked her what they needed.

“An open-records check on a Terrance Musgrove.” She spelled the name and gave his address here on Orange Lane. “Ten years ago, approximately.”

She turned to Hendricks.

“What county are we in?”

“Westmoreland,” Hendricks said.

George told her he would call ahead and smooth the way with the local police. Jenn dragged her tongue over her teeth. Either Tate had a partner, or they had the wrong guy. God help them if Tate was innocent.