There were a couple teenage boys standing there, taking pictures, giddy with excitement. It was odd. Why were they taking pictures of a parking lot? And why did they seem excited about it?
When I walked up on them, they jumped, as if they hadn’t heard me coming.
“Christ, dude, where did you come from?”
“What’s with the parking lot?”
They both looked at each other and back at me. “You not from here?”
I stared.
“It’s the Hex House.” They both shook their heads, like they couldn’t fathom my cluelessness.
“There’s no house. It’s a parking lot.”
“Exactly.”
I shook my head and walked off. Teenagers baffled me.
I made a left on Boston, back toward downtown, and found what I was looking for; a hotel. If Wyatt’s boss was smart, he’d look at the first hotel between Sean’s house and downtown, since the guy in the Focus had likely seen which direction I’d walked from. It was a place called the Ambassador and it looked nice. A lot of downtown hotels usually were. I wasn’t too worried about them going through and tossing everyone’s rooms, but they could set up surveillance on the place. I found a Best Western at 7th and Houston that looked a little more, umm, me.
I walked through the lobby like I owned the place. Confidence was key. It was about eight p.m. by then and most people would be checked in already. I took the stairs up to the top floor and scoped out the surroundings. A maid was cleaning a room at the end. Her cart was out in the hall. There was an old Kirby vacuum and bottles of cleaning supplies hanging by the triggers over the edge. It smelled like bleach and Windex. Maybe it’d be easier than I thought. I listened for her in the room while I rummaged through the cart.
There was a master key lying on top, next to bags of dirty linens draped over the sides. I palmed it with a swift motion as I walked past and opened the room she’d be heading to next. The room wasn’t occupied but the duvet was still disheveled from the prior guest. I propped the door open and returned the key card where I’d found it. There was a list of the vacant rooms on a printed sheet of paper sitting next to the key. Half the rooms had Xs slashed across them. Those rooms were the ones she’d already cleaned. The high-end places in cities used digital systems. Not the Best Western, though. They were all analog. Pencil and paper. I drew an X on my new room.
I ran back over and hung the “do not disturb” sign on the door and shut it. Threw the latch on in case she tried to come in anyway.
The room looked relatively tidy other than the disheveled covers on the bed. It’d work. I figured it was hardly used by someone in town on business and looking for a bargain room. They knew they’d only be at the hotel to sleep. It was a normal loft room, single bedroom and a bathroom. The wall the headboard sat against was painted with a chevron pattern. Half of each shape was painted gray and the other halves were white, green, or navy. A small plum armchair sat in the corner and there were two nightstands with stainless-steel lamps above them on each side of the bed. Opposite the bed was a dresser that doubled as an entertainment center with a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall.
I flipped open Callahan’s laptop and tried “West Point Hooah” for the password. I knew there was a snowball’s chance in hell of it working, but I wanted to see if it flashed any kind of warning. It did. I had two more attempts and then it would lock. I’d need his fingerprint to get in after that. That seemed to be an unlikely chore, given the circumstances.
The next logical step was to try “SUSGOHRYAAESRV” from the rail cipher. I was almost certain it would work. It didn’t.
“Damn it.” I beat my fist on the bed.
I tried to get into Callahan’s head.
You never make things easy, do you?
I thought about all the times he scolded me for my passwords. “If you only knew all the things people could do just by knowing someone’s password,” he’d say. I used to write mine down on a sticky note and shove it under my keyboard. Apparently half of America did the same thing and Callahan could go on for hours about it.
I’d have given just about anything to hear another one of his computer security rants. He got onto everyone about it. “You need upper case, lower case, numbers, and a symbol, preferably random with no information that links to you.” I stared back at the cipher. Maybe part of it meant something. It had to be in there or else he didn’t want me in his computer.
I thought through the whole ad I’d memorized. I really needed to write it down.
FOR SALE!
Multiple items. Antique MCMLiV windmill. Seven 1950s era dolls, all related.
Build-a-bear. Assorted fake Ruby jewelry. Couch with Cushions, OK condition.
$168. No less.
SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY!
SUSGOHRYAAESRV
He’d told me before that random-looking letters were better than words with a mix of upper and lower case. He’d gone on for a while about how you couldn’t truly ever achieve randomness. Then something about prime numbers to simulate it. He said symbols and numbers added a layer of complexity to a password. I scanned through the cipher for any of that stuff and punched out “MCMLiV$168.”
Held my breath and pressed the enter key. The hard drive spun to life and the fan whizzed. The screen lit up.
I pored through his computer and it almost looked blank, nothing more than usual stuff you’d find on one—calendar, email, etc. There were no other icons on the desktop, just a picture of some rolling green hills that looked like Ireland as his wallpaper. I went through the C drive and his my document folders. Nothing.
I thought for a few minutes. I couldn’t find something once on my computer and he’d helped me. How had he done it? The files were hidden.
I messed around with it for a few minutes and went into the control panel. Found the option to show hidden files. Clicked it.
A new folder popped up in the window. I guessed it was just an added step. Just in case. Surely, if someone else had been able to get into his computer they’d have known that trick. I patted myself on the back for figuring it out, though. Technology was definitely Callahan’s domain, though I always did my best to learn what I needed on the job. Mainly because I thought resisting change was silly. If something could do the job better and faster, learn how to do it. Doing something the long way when there’s an easier way was a waste of time.
I scrolled through the folder. Windows popped up when I clicked on things. There was a lot of information there. I created a new gmail account and emailed the documents to myself in case there was some kind of Inspector Gadget self-destruct whatever on the password and it only allowed one-time access. There was no telling with Callahan. I always tried to imagine the worst possible thing that could happen, and tried to avoid it. It’s how I lived most of my life. And right then, having the files and then not having them would be the worst possible thing that could happen.
Once I was sure I had a backup of everything, I went through the documents. I gave myself until eleven p.m. and then it would be lights out. I wanted to be fully rested for the next day. I went through each document thoroughly. Callahan had worked for a large farm outside of town. Some place near the city of Claremore called McCurdy Farms. I looked it up on Google maps, and it was too far to walk from downtown Tulsa.
Sean had W-2s going back about three years—the time he left the Army. There were a bunch of invoices from different suppliers—agriculture corporations, co-ops, and one from Classic Cola. Those interested me. They had to be there for a reason, but I couldn’t make a connection. Maybe I could pick Detective Shirley’s brain and she’d have an idea. She’d probably know this farm business a lot better than I would. I didn’t waste time speculating. I’d go check it out for myself and then come up with a hypothesis.
The clock read 10:30 p.m. I thought back to the ad in the classifieds. Callahan was the kind of guy to be efficient, even in jokes and riddles. Zero fat. Minimalist. I just needed to think like him.
&
nbsp; At a quarter to eleven I cleaned the Beretta as best as possible with what I had available and lay down on my back. Cleaning my gun was like a child having a bedtime story read to them. It’d put me right to sleep. I thought about Callahan and the good times we’d had. I wondered what they were doing with his body and if I needed to make sure he had a service. Who was handling his estate for him? I had no clue what kind of assets he had, or if there would be attorneys, wills, or trusts. I knew he had no family. He’d told me after his mother passed away that he was all that was left. His name died with him. That hit me hard for some reason. His whole family wiped clean. How long would it take for them to be forgotten altogether? It’d be like they never even existed.
I cringed thinking about all of it. I cleaned the Beretta once more to ease the anxiety. At eleven p.m. I flipped the lamp off, closed my eyes, and went to sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.
8
I KNOCKED ON SHIRLEY’S DOOR. Her house was decent. It was in a suburb called Broken Arrow on the east side of the Tulsa metropolitan area. It was a nice neighborhood, small cookie-cutter houses evenly spaced apart and lined up in neat rows, maybe twenty years old.
The sun filtered through a medium-sized oak a few front yards away. Shadows from the leaves danced all over the sidewalk. It was already hot, close to ninety.
“Hang on a minute!”
Detective Shirley scrambled around on the other side of her front door. After knocking, I heard rustling and footsteps pounding. I stood there holding the laptop. Ten a.m. I’d waited thirty minutes before going to the porch.
She opened the door in a tight-stretch Foo Fighters concert tee and a pair of jeans. Frizzy tendrils of hair straggled out of her ponytail. She wore glasses with petite Ralph Lauren frames, but her eyes were the same emerald green. Must’ve been clear contacts yesterday. She’d changed clothes.
I smiled at how sexy she was when surprised.
She stared at me for a brief second. “You. Umm. . .”
I cocked an eyebrow up.
“What are you doing here?” She whisper-screamed it like someone might hear.
“Said you wanted to see me.”
“You know what I meant.” She licked her lips ever so slightly. “How’d you find me?”
“Why’d you change clothes?”
“How do you—”
“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”
She glanced back around her house and then leaned out the door, looking left right left, like a kid checking the street for cars. She was buying time, trying to figure out how I knew she changed clothes, and how I’d found her, replaying yesterday and today through her head. I stood there and said nothing. She stared like she couldn’t make up her mind. I knew she’d let me in. How could she not? She was a detective. She needed answers.
The door squeaked open, and I gently shouldered past her.
I glanced around, walking through the entryway, and took in the scenery. “Nice place.”
She stomped past me and whipped around. Her arms crossed one over the other and the Foo Fighters tee stretched across her breasts. Dave Grohl had never looked so hot in his life. If she kept that up, I’d have to adjust my crotch in front of her. It was only fair.
She ignored my compliment. “How?”
“C’mon, detective. Where’s the fun in that?”
“You love messing with me. Don’t you?”
I smirked. “Oh yes.” I strode past her on my way to the couch, looking at several pictures on the wall as I walked by. I sat down on the sofa and made myself at home. Her house was small. Two-bedroom one bath most likely. It had a tiny living room, and even tinier kitchen. The place wasn’t decorated much. There was a half-dead plant and a television and a sofa. Neutral-colored walls filled in the background. She wasn’t there often and never entertained.
It was the house of a workaholic detective. No doubt about that.
I set Callahan’s laptop on the cushion next to me. Shirley planted her feet in front of me and glared lasers into my skull.
“Not going to offer me a drink?”
“I’m going to offer you a foot in your ass.” A grin threatened through her rigid stare.
“Told you I’d find you.”
She bit her lip. I wanted to bite it for her. The day was still young.
“Dry cleaners.”
“What?” She looked down at her clothes instinctively.
“Why were you in the field working late? And what were you working on last weekend?”
“I’m already hating this game, Savage. Spit it out or get out.”
So many puns, so little time.
“On the chair. At your office. I saw the tag with the business name.”
“You found my address from seeing a dry cleaner bag?”
I shrugged.
“How?”
“Looked up the place. Only one location. It wasn’t near your office. Had to be by your house. You picked it up on Monday last week, and probably dropped off the clothes you’d worn on the weekend. You usually pick them up on Saturdays after the work week and take them home. You have five outfits, maybe six. You alternate them. I bet you have one for each day of the week, and it drives you insane if the days get mixed up. But you were working last Saturday and Sunday and all this week in the evenings. During the day too, that’s why you hadn’t brought it home yet. It’s why the bag from the cleaners was still on your desk.”
Her eyes widened as I deduced her entire routine from her dry cleaner tag.
“I called your department this morning to see if you were working. You weren’t, so I scoped the place out, saw you, and followed you home. You had on a different outfit than you do now. That’s how I knew you changed clothes.”
“No way. I would’ve seen you.”
I stood. “Don’t worry, Detective. You’re not the first person trained to spot a tail that missed me.”
She bit her lip again. That was going to be dangerous if she kept doing it. “Can’t believe I didn’t see you.”
I took a step and closed the gap between us. “You told me to find you. Here I am.”
She walked a few steps away, toward the kitchen. “Well, it was none of your business what I was working on and crime doesn’t happen only from nine to five.”
“Fair enough.”
She shook her head at me. “Who the hell are you?”
“Someone you guys should take seriously.” I snagged Callahan’s laptop and sat down again.
She turned to me. “Before we get started, I need a way to get hold of you.”
I flipped the lid open and typed in the password, not bothering to look up at her. “Right.”
“I’m serious. You’re named as the executor in Callahan’s will. The lawyer needs to get in touch.”
“Can they let the court or someone else do it?”
She shook her head. “He left almost everything to you. It’s just a formality. You may need to write a couple checks to charity and fill out some paperwork.”
“Tell the lawyer I’ll find him too.”
She sighed. “Fine.”
I turned the laptop toward her and showed her everything I’d found. Invoices, tax forms, etc.
“Yeah, we already knew he worked at McCurdy Farms. Saw the tax forms. The invoices are new.”
“Thanks for sharing that yesterday.”
She ignored my jab. “So, you think his work was connected to his death?”
“I know it was. It was all in a hidden folder where he knew I’d find it. Why else would he have these invoices in here?”
She bit a fingernail. “I don’t know. Maybe he took work home with him? Maybe they were required to be in a secret folder for security purposes? Maybe he did that for everything because he liked having files hidden?”
“Everything else was wiped on his computer. He called my work and left a message for me to get to Tulsa and get his laptop. He knew something was about to happen.”
“He’s big into codes and stuff, right? That
’s like, your guys’ thing?”
I nodded.
“Did you read through all the invoices? Maybe he altered them. Left you another rail cipher.”
“I read every word. Looked for patterns. They’re all the same, but different at the same time. Different days. Different vendors. Different products. Seeds, pesticides—normal stuff you’d buy for a large farm. There’s one from Classic Cola, but I figure it’s for the breakrooms or soda machines or whatever. No ciphers.”
“Any theories?”
“Drugs? That was my first thought, a farm concealing a drug operation. It’d be a good cover. Do you know the place?”
She nodded. “Yeah, I mean, kind of. It’s out by Claremore. They have a huge farm off Route 66. The guy who owns the company is kind of a big wig. I’ve seen him at fundraisers and department functions for the public. Never talked to him before.” She sat there for a second. “I can’t see it being drugs though. We have drug problems like every city, but mostly meth labs and prescription pills. Cannabis, coke, and heroin usually come from Mexico and the cartels. Tulsa’s more of a distribution hub because we’re in the middle of the U.S. You’d only need a farm for weed.”
I thought for a bit. If they grew weed and manufactured the other drugs here, they’d cut out the shipping cost of importing it from Mexico. It’d be less risky on that front too. Every mile of transporting drugs is extra liability. The guy would have distribution channels lined up, assuming his produce was already shipped across the country. The size of the invoices told me it probably was. There’d be a growing issue, though. A meth lab is easier to hide than a field of marijuana. It’s more contained and eats up less real estate.
“What are their facilities like out there?”
“I’ve never been on the grounds. Just driven by. There are large buildings but keeping that all on lockdown would be difficult. They have a lot of employees. But, I imagine they have a lot of land you can’t see from the highway.”
“You said it’s right off Route 66? That’s a major highway? I’ve heard of it before. Isn’t it famous?”
Savage Beast (Max Savage Book 1) Page 4
