by J. A. Jance
Cami’s three years of high school Spanish hadn’t nearly equipped her to translate that much material, and she wasn’t sure the translation app in her computer was all that good at it, either. In addition the occasional garbling of sentences made her think that perhaps the English-to-Spanish transcriber hadn’t done much better.
She combed through the interviews one at a time, making careful notes and encrypting them as she went. She culled out the names of the people on the ship who had been most closely associated with Roger McGeary—the butler, the housekeeper, the barman, and the servers in the dining room, along with the three ladies he had dined and partied with on the night in question.
The other files Stu had sent included everything he’d been able to find on the Internet that had anything to do with Roger McGeary. Most of it concerned his disappearance and presumed death. There was only one mention of the massive potential data breach he had averted.
In addition to the encrypted files there was an unencrypted one. It contained a very old and faded photograph of two boys, one that looked as though it might have been lifted from a high school yearbook. Cami enlarged the picture until the pixels turned to fuzz. It took a moment for her to recognize one of the two broadly grinning boys with their shaggy 1990s-era hairstyles. The taller of the two was a much younger and much hairier version of Stuart Ramey. The caption underneath the photo read: “Stuart Ramey and Roger McGeary, SPHS Dungeons & Dragons Champions, 1991.”
It was in that moment of recognition that Cami finally understood why she was on the plane and why Ali Reynolds and B. Simpson had green lighted what was already a very expensive operation. It had nothing to do with Julia Miller’s request for help.
This was all about Stuart—a loyal, weird, and often annoying guy. He’d had a friend once—a very good friend, evidently—who was forever lost to him now. Whatever High Noon’s investigation revealed about Roger McGeary’s fate wouldn’t bring that lost friend back, but at least it would give Stu some needed answers, and that was all that mattered.
16
Beth was still holding the phone when the next text bomb landed. When she heard the alert, she didn’t let herself hope that the message would be a cheery note from Joel or from one of her friends or even from her folks.
A glance at the text file told her she was right. CC—Corrine Calhoun, Joel’s ex. The phone trembled in Beth’s hand. She already knew the kind of poison she would find in the message, and she didn’t want to read it; didn’t want to internalize the hurtful words. But the urge to know what it said was irresistible.
I can’t believe that Joel is dumb enough to go through with this. How can he marry someone like you—a self-destructive nutcase with a long history of mental health issues—and expect you to be a suitable stepmother to our boys? How can he? Ricky and Robby deserve something better. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Joel deserves something better, too.
I know all about the cutting. And if there are scars on your body, that’s nothing compared to the scars you carry on your soul.
You deserve to die, bitch, the sooner the better.
Covering her mouth with one hand, Beth bit back a ragged sob, and then, while she watched, the words magically disappeared from her screen, leaving no trace behind—not even on her list of received texts.
The texts from Corrine had started showing up weeks earlier. When the first one came in, she had seen the sender’s name and assumed it was something to do with the wedding. Corrine had been adamantly uncooperative about every single detail on that, including insisting that the only way the boys, ages nine and eleven, could attend their father’s wedding ceremony was if Joel himself drove down to Santa Monica to pick them up beforehand and delivered them back home once the wedding was over. Obviously that plan wasn’t going to work. After a great deal of negotiation, Corrine had finally relented, agreeing that the boys could fly as long as she flew up with them—at their father’s expense, of course—and as long as Corrine was at the wedding to oversee their activities.
Considering the way Joel’s kids had behaved on the other occasions when Beth had met them, not having them in attendance at all might have been for the best. Much as she wanted to like them, Ricky and Robby were not likable kids. They were poorly behaved in public. The first time Beth met them, Joel had taken them out to dinner at a Red Robin in Santa Monica. They had been rude to her all during dinner. Then, before the meal ended, the two of them had gotten into a food fight, pitching French fries across the table at one another. In other words, Beth had good reason to be concerned that, without Corrine in attendance, another food fight between the boys would be in the offing during the wedding supper.
That was what she’d been thinking when the first message came in and before she read it. And although she couldn’t remember the whole thing word for word, the gist of it was chiseled into her soul: Joel must be scraping bottom if he’s desperate enough to settle for someone as useless as you.
Beth could barely believe her eyes. She was in the process of rereading it when it vanished. Completely. She had wanted to tell Joel about it, but how could she? “Your ex just sent me a poison text message that disappeared the moment I read it.” Sure, that would go over like a pregnant pole-vaulter. Beyond turning her phone off and on and taking selfies now and then, Beth knew nothing about technology. Whoever heard of disappearing text messages? Were they even possible? They sounded like something straight out of the The Twilight Zone. The last thing she needed right now was for someone to think she was lying about this or, even worse, delusional.
The next message arrived a day or two later. It had been four words long, including calling her the dreaded c-word. Shocked beyond words and with her fingers shaking in outrage, Beth had tried to copy the message before it disappeared, but that didn’t work. Even though she pressed her finger on the line, she could neither highlight it nor copy it.
Beth had told no one about what was happening. What was the point? If she accused Corrine of sending the missing texts, all the woman would do was deny it. But this one? This was by far the worst. How could Corrine possibly know about the cutting unless Marissa had told her, or worse, Joel? Since Marissa had never met Corrine, that made the first possibility unlikely. And if Joel was the culprit? That meant he had betrayed Beth in the worst possible way. How could she marry the man if she couldn’t trust him to keep her deepest, most closely guarded secrets?
And then, while the phone was still gripped in Beth’s hand, it rang, and Joel’s name popped up in the caller ID window. “Hey, babe,” he said when she answered. “I just got out of a client meeting that went on for hours. Wanted to call and see how your day’s going.”
“It’s okay,” Beth managed.
“It doesn’t sound okay. Your voice seems funny. Is something wrong?”
“No,” she insisted quickly. “It’s nothing. A case of pre-wedding jitters is all.”
“You’re not gonna back out on me now, are you?”
He said it in that gently teasing way of his, without having any idea how close to the mark his question came. If Corrine knew about the cutting, she probably knew about the anorexia, too. That was why she’d said what she said—the part about Beth being mentally ill and self-destructive.
“No, really,” she said quickly. “I’m okay.”
“Do you want me to stop by after work?”
“Not tonight,” she said. “I’ve got a bit of a headache.”
“Lunch tomorrow, then? Corrine and the boys fly in tomorrow evening, and from then on it’s going to be a three-ring circus.”
Corrine and the boys, Beth thought, great! “All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “Mom is going with me to the fitting tomorrow afternoon, but we can have lunch before that.”
The call ended. A despairing Beth sat staring at her phone wondering if maybe she really should call off the wedding. If only she could go see Dr. Cannon and talk thin
gs over, but she couldn’t. Dr. Cannon wasn’t there anymore. Beth’s trusted psychiatrist had thrown in the towel. Months earlier she had sent out notices telling her patients that she had recently been informed that her medical group’s computer network had been hacked, creating a serious data breach as far as patient records were concerned. Concerned that patient confidentiality had not been properly protected, she was leaving that medical group, shuttering her practice, and going into retirement, effective immediately. Dr. Cannon had included contact information for a number of mental health professionals who were accepting new patients if anyone was interested in a referral.
Beth had been shocked at that abrupt turn of events, but right that minute things were going well for her, and she had been in no mood to go shopping for a new therapist. After all, she was acing all her classes. She and Joel were engaged and planning both a wedding and a future together. What could possibly go wrong?
But now it had gone wrong—terribly, terribly wrong. That was when Beth finally heard the siren call coming from the brand-new packet of razor blades she had stowed in the top drawer of the bathroom vanity. She had been trying her best to resist the urge—for days now—but this was too much.
She was in the bathroom watching the bright red stream from her arm mingle with the running water in the basin and disappear down the drain when her mother tapped lightly on the door to her bedroom.
“Dinner’s on,” Molly announced through the door.
“Sorry, Mom,” Beth called back. “I think I’ll pass. I’m just not hungry tonight.”
17
Ali was frustrated as she drove home. She had authorized the expenditure of a small fortune to get Cami booked onto the Whispering Star. Then, just as Ali was leaving the office, Stu had told her that he had succeeded in laying hands on Detective Inspector Garza’s files. In other words, putting Cami on the ship might prove to be a huge waste of money and effort. Still, if Cami did do follow-up interviews with people from the ship, she’d at least be able to see if they were still giving the same version of events.
What’s done is done, Ali told herself firmly. You called the shot as best you could. No use second-guessing now.
After enduring a properly ecstatic greeting from Bella, Ali was delighted to find Leland hovering over a simmering pot of beef bourguignon. She couldn’t help reflecting somewhat sadly that once Leland was gone, homemade beef bourguignon would most likely become a thing of the past.
“How are things?” he asked.
“Let’s just say I’m glad to be home.”
“All right, then,” he said. “Dinner’s almost ready, but just so you know, the Brit’s out of the running.”
“We’re down to just two candidates?”
Leland nodded. “He said that he googled the house and decided there wouldn’t be enough for him to do here to keep him occupied.”
“So you’re saying the guy fired us?” Ali asked with a hint of laughter in her voice.
“Apparently,” Leland said with a nod. “I told you I thought the man was a bit of a snob. I doubt he would have been a good fit. Come and get it. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“I’ll go change, then,” Ali told him. She was on her way to the bedroom when her phone rang with Stu’s name in the caller ID.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I’ve been going through Garza’s file,” Stu said excitedly, “and I just hit a bonanza. Roger was the team leader of the group that managed the Shining Star account. At Garza’s suggestion, the cruise line demanded that Cyber Resources send along copies of all internal correspondence dealing with Shining Star. Someone from there created a separate password-protected file containing all the requested material. Fortunately for us, Garza isn’t especially security-minded. He left the password right there in front of God and everybody.”
“And where does that get us?” Ali asked.
“All Cyber Resources’ proprietary information has been redacted, of course, and we don’t have access to Roger’s work computer, but what’s here gives us a reasonable window on his work life.”
“And?”
“He was happy. There was very little work-related material in the computer Julia Miller gave us. Here, though, are e-mails and texts going back and forth between him and his fellow team members as well as his superiors inside the company. One guy who worked with him, Jack Wendall, was pissed beyond bearing when Roger got all the credit for solving the data breach situation. So pissed, in fact, that when Roger was invited on the cruise, Wendall up and quit altogether.”
“Pissed enough to commit murder?” Ali asked.
“Maybe,” Stuart said. “I’m checking his whereabouts now. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”
“What, then?”
“Roger wasn’t suicidal,” Stuart answered definitively. “Not before he got on the cruise ship and not afterward, either.”
“How can you know that?”
“I located an online outfit that specializes in suicide prevention. They’ve developed a relatively new program, an algorithm that analyzes people’s turns of phrase and use of emojis in correspondence and social media situations to determine whether or not they are suicidal. I ran Roger’s data through that, and nothing I found in his personal computer pointed in that direction.”
“If he didn’t commit suicide, then what are you saying—that his death may be murder after all?”
“Possibly,” Stu answered.
“If that’s the case, what’s next?” Ali asked.
“I’d like to get a line on Jack Wendall’s location for starters,” Stuart said. “Garza interviewed him by Skype, and he admitted straight out that he hated Roger’s guts. According to Garza’s notes, he also had an airtight alibi at the time Roger died. I’d like to verify that. Once I locate him, if he needs to be interviewed, I was hoping maybe you could talk to him. I mean, with Cami out of the country . . .” Stu’s voice trailed off.
None of this was surprising as far as Ali was concerned. Stu was great at finding people, but his marginal interpersonal skills made him anything but skilled at doing interviews.
“Sure,” Ali said. “Glad to. Just let me know where and when.”
“And I’m looking into Dr. Amelia Cannon. Roger stopped seeing her a number of months ago, and I’m curious about that.”
“He stopped going to her without making arrangements to find a replacement?”
“Not that I can see.”
“So did he stop going because he thought he was cured, or did he stop for some other reason?” Ali asked.
“That’s what I want to know. I found a phone listing for Dr. Cannon. I tried calling, but all I got was a disconnect with no referral to another number. So that’s where I’ll be concentrating my efforts tonight—trying to locate Jack Wendall and Dr. Cannon.”
“Okay,” Ali said. “Keep me posted.”
18
After finally escaping his mother’s dinnertime clutches, Owen expected to return to the basement for a relaxing evening of listening in on Beth Wordon’s life and times, but that was not to be. As soon as he turned on his computer screen, he was surprised to discover that it was filled with IOIs from Frigg, all of them highlighted in red. Red designated one thing and one thing only—an elevated threat level.
Slipping into his Odin persona, he was sure whatever Frigg had found couldn’t possibly be that serious. As he read through the first item, however, he began to wonder if his AI might be onto something. Stuart Ramey, the school chum Julia Miller had called on to help investigate her nephew’s case, wasn’t just anybody and neither were the people he worked for—High Noon Enterprises.
While he’d been at dinner, Frigg had gathered a tremendous amount of material on the company itself as well as on several of the individuals involved. Scrolling through the material, Odin could see why Frigg regarded them as dangerous. Stuart
Ramey was clearly not an ordinary guy. Detective Inspector Esteban Garza had been a relatively harmless local yokel with limited technical skills and no real motivation to look for anything other than obvious answers as far as Roger McGeary’s death was concerned. He had expected a suicide and he had found exactly that—a self-fulfilling prophecy. Had he dug into the ship’s electronic records, he might have found some puzzling anomalies, but he had not.
In terms of technology, however, High Noon Enterprises was another kettle of fish entirely. Odin stopped long enough to retrieve the post from Julia Miller, the one he had read just before going to dinner. He read through it again, this time with a growing sense of apprehension.
I tracked down Roger’s oldest friend yesterday, a guy by the name of Stuart Ramey. They were very close as kids. I asked Stu if he’d help me find out what really happened. He didn’t make any promises, of course, but I think he and the people he works for may look into the situation. It’ll be good to have someone else on my side for a change. I’m tired of fighting this battle all on my own.
When Odin had first seen Stuart Ramey’s name, he’d been more curious than anything else, but this was entirely different. High Noon was a cyber security company with global reach and stature. Stuart didn’t have much of a public or social media presence, but his boss did. Odin’s jaw literally dropped when he saw that B. Simpson had started out as a star in the video gaming world and had somehow managed to parlay that unlikely beginning into a multimillion-dollar cyber security company doing business with any number of Fortune 500 entities.
Another notable individual connected to High Noon was a guy named Lance Tucker, and he was legend. While still in high school, Tucker had invented something called GHOST (Go Hide On Server Technology) that had been able to penetrate the hidden secrets of the dark Web without leaving a trace. Tucker himself was now attending UCLA, but High Noon maintained a proprietary interest in the program Lance was credited with inventing.
