by A W Hartoin
“How would somebody else know it was you who’d done it?” I asked.
It turned out that Uncle Morty had style. It was hard to imagine, but he did. He couldn’t help it. He had a way he coded. Things he liked to use. Things that would possibly tip someone off that Morty wrote that particular piece of code on Catherine’s phone. But that wasn’t for a lay person. For instance, Uncle Morty knew Spidermonkey’s style, which he described as needlessly elegant. Nobody was going to describe Uncle Morty that way if he could help it by God. These markers were particularly noticeable when you were customizing code. The workarounds were key. Original code written for one-time use would be much harder to trace. He couldn’t get a bead on how they problem-solved and all that would tell him about the coder.
“I assume that means you don’t recognize this guy’s style?”
“He ain’t one of my connections.” Uncle Morty gave me a hard stare. “He’s not a hired gun.”
“That’s not good,” I said. “But it could be one of Catherine’s…partners.”
“No.”
“Why not? They could’ve learned this stuff in college.”
“I did a quick check on those dudes. None of them have the skill or interest, and they’re too old. This is fresh. Think recent college, not stodgy crap from the nineties.”
“They could’ve gone back to school,” I said.
“But they didn’t. I checked.”
I groaned. “You said there were two reasons for writing the code. What’s the other one?”
“He thought it was fun.”
“Writing code can be fun?”
“Hell, yeah. When I was in college, I wrote code for hours every day. I freaking loved it. I’d do it now if I had the damn time.”
“I thought you wrote your first novels in college,” I said.
“I did. Three in Freshman year.”
“When did you go to class?”
He belched and said, “I didn’t. Got kicked out junior year. I deserved it.”
I rubbed my eyes and leaned back. “So he can code and probably loves it. Geek with nothing better to do.”
“Hey,” said Uncle Morty.
“Like you didn’t know you’re a geek,” I said. “But he hates Catherine. He wants her fired.”
“That don’t mean it’s personal.”
“He threw urine on her. It doesn’t get more personal than that.”
Uncle Morty shook his head. “It doesn’t track. Something ain’t right here.”
He was right. The urine was angry, insanely angry.
“Let me see the Calabasas emails again,” I said. “Not the pictures, please.”
I read through the messages. They were simplistic. “Catherine’s a slut.” “Fire Catherine Cabot.” No passion now that I really thought about it. The pictures masked that. Those images got up in your head, but the messages that accompanied them were nothing. No detailed accusations about breaking up families or whatever.
“He was counting on the pictures to get the job done,” I said.
“It might’ve worked if Calabasas didn’t like Catherine.”
“Has Catherine dumped anyone besides Joe Hove?”
“I’m telling you it ain’t one of these guys,” said Uncle Morty.
“Maybe they don’t code, but they’ve got friends. I’ve got you. I couldn’t code my way out of a paper bag.”
“Damn straight.”
“Thanks for confirming. Now give me the guys.”
Uncle Morty got red-faced and the sweating started up again in earnest. “Take my damn word for it, will ya?”
“No. Give me the names.”
“You don’t need the names.”
“I do. How am I going to interview these guys otherwise?” I asked.
“You don’t need to.”
A weird tingling feeling came over me. Not that something wasn’t right. More like concentrated worry in my skin. “It’s not…”
“Huh?” he asked.
“Oh my God,” I said.
Uncle Morty wouldn’t look at me.
I swallowed and squeaked, “Is it Chuck?”
“Hell, no. Are you crazy? That boy would have to be out of his damn mind. Catherine can’t hold a candle.”
“You saw that pilot, Gary, right?”
“I see your point, but no. It ain’t Chuck or Tommy or me, if that’s where your nutty little mind went.”
“Alright then. Let me have it.”
“You won’t like it and you won’t like me for telling you,” he said gruffly.
“I don’t like you that much anyway.”
Uncle Morty slugged my shoulder, sending me rolling across the room and out the office door. “Sorry.”
“Get me a sandwich while you’re out there.”
I made him a ham and cheese. No veg because Nikki wasn’t there to demand it. I brought him the sandwich and an orange soda I dug out of the fridge. Nikki must’ve missed it in the big purge she did after Uncle Morty’s cholesterol numbers came back.
He popped the top and faced me. “Don’t get too excited. You don’t have to do anything.”
That means I do. Crap on a cracker.
“Tell me it’s not my friend Ellen’s husband because I will kill him and make it look like an accident.”
“It’s that nurse you like so much. Her husband.”
My mind went batshit crazy. I knew a lot of nurses and most of them I liked. Raptor was the rare exception, but she wasn’t married. I winced and said, “Shawna?”
“No.”
“Odetta?”
“No.”
“Carrie?”
“No.”
“Emily?”
“No.”
“Janet?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell me?” I asked.
He looked down at his stumpy fingers. “I don’t want to.”
I punched his shoulder, but his chair didn’t go anywhere. “Tell me.”
“Clem.”
I think I had an out of body experience. I heard what he said, but I felt like I was in some kind of vortex. Uncle Morty was looking at me with sweat rolling down his face. I almost thought I wasn’t in the room. It wasn’t happening because that could not be happening.
“Mercy? Did you hear me?”
“You don’t mean Clementine Collier,” I said after I got past the worst case of dry mouth ever.
“Sorry.”
“It can’t be.”
“It is.”
My mouth went even drier and I tried to talk, but nothing came out. I couldn’t have been more shocked if it had been Dad. I met Clem when I was fourteen. She was the reason I started thinking about being a nurse. The woman was a superhero, working at Children’s Hospital in the Pediatric ICU. I loved her. I loved her husband, John, a La-Z-Boy salesperson, and the most patient of men. Clem worked with the hardest cases. Kids died on her with regularity and John was right there, a shoulder to cry on. How could he? How?
Uncle Morty put the soda to my lips and I obediently swallowed.
“But he’s…”
“Old enough to be her dad? Yeah.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure it does,” I said. “Are you sure? I’m mean really sure.”
He was sure and Uncle Morty doesn’t make mistakes in the hacking world. I really wished that he did. Clem’s husband had been sexting with Catherine Cabot for a while. It wasn’t a regular thing. Once every few months. The last time was three months ago and John Collier had pinged her a few times since then. I read the messages and he wasn’t happy. He thought she was ignoring him. She was. She had Joe Hove until he fell in love and there was another guy, Timothy Johnson, a New York chef. Morty had ruled out Johnson on the urine. He was currently in New York and he wasn’t that into Catherine. From what I could tell, he didn’t have time for a relationship and thought she’d do until he did. Catherine was much more interested than he
was, and he’d been her guy the night before.
“You haven’t ruled out John on the urine?” I asked.
“No.”
“I have to talk to him.”
“You don’t. I’m telling you he ain’t threatening Catherine,” said Uncle Morty. “There’s no way he wrote that code.”
“What am I going to do?” I asked.
“Nothing. I’m going to track this code down and you’re going home.”
“I have to tell Clem. I’d want her to tell me.”
“No. It’s not your business.”
“It is now.”
“No. Go home and forget it,” said Uncle Morty.
But I couldn’t forget it and I was going to make sure Catherine Cabot never forgot me.
Chapter Eleven
UNCLE MORTY WOULDN’T give me Catherine’s address and he tried to tackle me on my way out the door. He missed and I was in an Uber before he made it down the stairs after me.
“Where to?” asked Justin, a college guy driving the ancient Camry that smelled like beer with a hint of barf.
“Just drive,” I said.
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“I need a destination,” said Justin.
“Union Station.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know. Just go.”
“Hey, that weird guy’s yelling at you,” he said as Uncle Morty burst out of the apartment building’s front door.
“Go. Go now.”
Justin hit the gas and I called Spidermonkey. “I need an address right now.”
“What’s wrong?” asked my super sleuth.
“Catherine Cabot, thirty-two, forensic accountant.”
“Mercy, you sound very upset,” said Spidermonkey.
“Are you going to give me that address?” I asked.
“Tell me why you need it.”
“I need it and I’m paying you so please give me the address.”
Spidermonkey went quiet and I could hear some gentle typing in the background along with his wife, Lorraine, talking about something, probably golf.
“I’ve got it, but please tell me what’s happening,” he said in that soft South Carolina accent that was usually so soothing.
“I found out that this Catherine person is involved with my friend’s husband and I’m going there to tell her exactly what kind of crap she is. I hope more people throw urine on her every day and then some.”
“You’re going to throw urine on her? That’s assault, Mercy.”
Justin looked back. “Do you have urine in here? That’s not cool.”
“I don’t,” I said. “Look at the road.”
“I’m going to drop you off.”
“I don’t have any urine. Just drive. I’ll tip you big.”
Justin grinned. I could’ve had urine and feces, and he wouldn’t have cared.
“Mercy,” said Spidermonkey. “I don’t think this is a good idea. What are you planning?”
“Nothing. I might smack her but nothing.”
“Mercy, there is no way I’m giving you this address. You are too—”
I hung up on the voice of reason. I wasn’t having it. I called Mr. Calabasas and to my ultimate surprise I sounded normal. I had to convince him to tell me Catherine’s address. He wasn’t happy about me telling her everything, but somehow, I convinced him that I had to talk to her. I don’t know what I said, but it worked. I got the address and told Justin, a loft in Lafayette Square.
“So you’re Mercy Watts,” said Justin.
“No, I’m not.” I so wasn’t in the mood.
“Yes, you are. You used your own account to order me.”
Dammit.
“Fine. Yes, I am.”
“What happened to your hair?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“It looks funky.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you use conditioner?”
I will kill you.
“Yes.”
“You need to change brands,” said Justin.
Don’t hit him. He’s driving. Arrive alive.
“Sure. I’ll do that.”
Justin was not one to take a hint. He hit me with so many questions. I don’t think he actually bothered to breathe until we pulled up to the front of Catherine’s building, a converted factory that boasted a gym, pool, and a covered parking structure adjacent or so the signs claimed.
“You look great in a bikini. Not today obviously. Not with that hair.”
I tossed fifty bucks over the seat, and he was still talking when I marched up to the entrance and woodpeckered Catherine’s buzzer.
Make me look at pictures of your naked body and know things that nobody wants to know about you. I will make you sorry you ever bought that extra phone. You, Catherine Cabot, are about to—
“Who is it?” a weepy, surprisingly young voice came out of the speaker.
“This is Mercy Watts and I want to talk to you,” I said, not bothering to be kind-sounding or polite. If she didn’t let me in, I was pretty sure I could bite my way through the door.
“Do…I know you?” she squeaked.
You’re gonna and you’ll wish you didn’t.
“It’s about your case,” I said.
“Case?”
“Big Steve Warnock asked me to look into your case,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Catherine, sounding younger than Ellen’s daughters.
I pushed the button again.
“Hello?”
“It’s Mercy again and look there’s one of your neighbors. I wouldn’t want to have to tell him about how somebody threw urine on you.” I was still talking, loud but not yelling. And there was no neighbor. Lying is my forte.
The door buzzed and I banged it open. I bypassed the mini elevator and dashed up the five stories, fueled by the thought of telling Clem.
I pounded on Catherine’s door yelling, “Open up!”
“Go away,” she yelled back in a panic. “I’m not decent.”
“I know,” I said. “If you don’t open this door, everyone will know.”
“Know what? Are you crazy? I’m calling the police!”
“Go for it, Catherine. That’s fine. I’ll tell them all about Joe Hove, Gary Vance, and John Collier. Do you have a license for porn? You might need a license.”
There was a click, the door opened, and a blue eye looked out at me over the chain. “Who are you?”
“I’m the person people call when they don’t want to call the cops.”
“Why are you so angry and how do you know those names?” she asked.
“Open the door and I’ll tell you.” I wouldn’t have opened the door, but Catherine did and I walked in armed with righteous anger, but it vanished the moment I got over the threshold.
Those lofts were expensive. Not ridiculous but expensive. Young professionals could afford it and that’s who lived in that building. Normal people. Up and comers climbing the ladder. They cared about their address and what was in it. I don’t know who the hell was living in that loft, but they were jacked.
Catherine Cabot stood there, wearing a ratty robe that might once have been pink. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut and her nose was bright red and dripping. “I wasn’t expecting visitors,” she said.
I wanted to say, “No kidding,” but the words didn’t come. We were standing in an area about the size of a Paris elevator, surrounded by piles of magazines, newspapers, and boxes so haphazardly stacked that I was worried that if I breathed too hard they might topple over and crush me to death. It smelled strongly of cat pee so breathing deep wasn’t happening. All that in eight months. That took commitment.
Catherine clutched her bathrobe, gathering it around her neck. “So you know Big Steve?”
“Yeah,” I managed to get out.
“And he told you about this morning?” Big tears dripped down her cheeks.
“Something died in here.”
&n
bsp; “No. I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s clean. I just have a lot of stuff.”
Something definitely died in there. I’d smelled death and it’s not a smell that you forget, but it wasn’t human, thank goodness.
I shouldn’t have said it, but things pop out sometimes. “Have you counted your cats lately?”
Catherine drew back and her face got blotchier.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “It’s been a rough day.”
She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I know about that.”
“Is there…some place we can talk? Do you have a balcony or deck? I have allergies.”
I didn’t have allergies, but there was no way I could stay in there. The walls were closing in. I couldn’t take it.
“Why do we need to talk?” asked Catherine.
Stay calm. You’re fine.
“I have information about your situation. It won’t be easy to hear, but you need to hear it.”
A phone rang somewhere in the depths of the loft.
“Alright,” she said. “I have to get that. Follow me.”
Catherine ducked under two stacks that had fallen together, forming a kind of rickety archway and stayed up by what could only be magic. I’ve never been so reluctant to go anywhere in my life and I’d been in some gross places, crack houses and the like, but Catherine’s place was different and so much worse. Unhappiness pervaded the place, a deep-down misery that went on and on.
There must have been a kitchen, but I didn’t see it. There were pizza boxes and food containers on every available surface and the smell of rotting food joined the cat pee and dead whatever. I saw the end of a sofa, but so many boxes and Christmas decorations were stacked on it, there was no way a person could sit there. Cats peeked out of cubbies, looking as unhappy as cats possibly could. I thought of my Skanky. He was called Skanky because of the condition I found him in. Now he was fat and happy, constantly cleaning and always on the hunt for something to eat that he shouldn’t. Catherine’s cats looked like they’d given up and it hurt my heart.
“Here it is,” she said somehow finding a cellphone under a collection of Tupperware, only some of it clean. “Hello?”
