“Well?” I said anxiously.
“Flames and ashes.” She leaned back in the chair and folded her hands.
“That’s all?” I groused, looking down at the case in my hand. “What kind of password is that?”
“I don’t know—I saw flames erupt, leaving a pile of ash.”
I gave her a scowl. “I hate to tell you, Abby, but that doesn’t help me a whole lot.”
She met my expression with a smile. “What did you expect? That I’d envision Stephen’s password in big red letters?”
“It would be nice,” I declared, tapping the case on the desk.
Hopping up, I moved around to the computer. Abby stood, and I took her place at the desk. She watched over my shoulder as I inserted the disk. Darci moved to my other side.
“Okay, let’s try ‘flames.’” I typed in the word.
Nothing. I entered fire.
Invalid password.
Placing her hand on the desk, Darci leaned in. “Try ‘flames and ashes.’”
“Okay,” I said, swiftly typing the words.
No go.
Darci nudged me with her hip. “Let me try.”
“Whatever,” I said, switching places with her.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed every synonym for “flames and ashes” she could think of. She tried uppercase, lowercase, and still couldn’t break the code.
With a sigh of exasperation, she sat back in the chair and chewed on her lip. “I need to think about this.” She tore her gaze away from the computer and glanced up at me. “Karen Burns didn’t mention a password?”
“Jeez, Darci.” I leaned against the desk and glared at her. “Don’t you think if she did, I would’ve tried it?”
Her eyes focused back on the computer screen as if staring at it long enough would make the password magically appear. “All right, so that was a dumb question.”
“It might be she didn’t know Stephen used a password,” Abby commented in a reasonable voice. “She said she didn’t look at the disks until he’d finished the manuscript.”
“Well,” I said, pushing away from the desk, “I’m going to call her and find out. Oh, while you’re at it, Darci…would you go online and type ‘Hospital Saint Louis, Paris, France’ in the search bar. My password is”—I shot a look at Abby—‘ “magick.’”
Placing my hand on Darci’s shoulder, I leaned down to watch the screen as she logged in then typed the words in the search bar. She hit Enter.
My fingers squeezed into her shoulder.
“Ouch,” she said with a squirm.
“Oh,” I mumbled, my eyes never leaving the screen, “sorry.”
There it was—Hospital Saint Louis. It was a real place. Did it mean Madeleine was real, too?
After Abby left, I tried to reach Karen Burns, but failed. At a loss what to do then, I wandered back to the office where Darci had commandeered my computer and refused to budge. She was determined to discover Stephen’s password. Slouching in one of the armchairs, I watched as her fingers continually tapped the keyboard. The clacking sound of her long nails hitting the keys made me jumpy.
“Have you tried ‘conflagration’?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.” She typed faster.
“How about ‘flare’?” I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair, keeping time with Darci’s typing.
“Yeah.”
‘ “Inferno’?”
Her fingers paused. “Yes.”
‘ “Pyre’?”
“Will you stop?” she asked, leaning back in the chair and glaring at me. “You’re making me nervous.”
I popped to my feet. “What about you?” I wiggled my fingers at her. “All that clacking and clicking’s bugging me.”
“Then go find something to do.” She turned her attention to the screen and resumed typing. “Go do some psychic stuff,” she said, dismissing me.
Frustrated, I paced out of the office. “Do some psychic stuff,” I grumbled to myself. Right, like it was that easy. It wasn’t a switch I could flip on and off. I wished it were; then maybe I’d have my answers.
I wandered into the kitchen, and grabbing my cell phone off the kitchen counter, tried Karen Burns again. Nothing. I was beginning to think the woman didn’t want to talk to me. I hoped that was the case, and not that she couldn’t talk to me. I was at an impasse without the password, without any more information about Madeleine.
I picked up the paper and glanced at the front page. The main story was about Chuck Krause and his aide’s murder.
The young man, Benjamin Jessup, had been leaving Krause’s campaign headquarters with Krause when a man on a motorcycle speeding by opened fire. The DCI were investigating and had “no comment.” The article went on to quote Krause. He was shocked, appalled, at Jessup’s death, and saw the situation as one more reason to push harsher penalties for lawbreakers.
Disgusted, I threw the newspaper down. A young man was dead and Krause was using it to promote his own political agenda.
Shoving my hands in my back pockets, I stared off into space. What next? I snapped my fingers—Stephen’s date book. Maybe I’d missed something.
I ran upstairs to my bedroom and pulled the copy out of my nightstand drawer. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I thumbed through it. Nothing new hit me until I noticed the phone number entered next to The Bookworm. A 515 area code. I’d been so focused on finding Karen Burns that I hadn’t tried calling that number. I picked up the phone and dialed.
It rang twice. A young woman’s voice came on the line.
“Krause for representative.”
I swiftly covered the receiver to hide my gasp.
“Hello? Anyone there?” she asked.
“Ah, hi…” I stuttered, stumbling to my feet.
“May I help you?” Her voice sounded strained.
“Umm, this may sound odd, but I found this number listed in a friend’s date book…and, well…”
“Who is this? Is this a crank call?”
“No, honest…a friend of mine, Stephen Larsen—”
“The author who was shot?”
“Yes—”
“We’ve already talked to the police,” she cut me off curtly. “Good—”
“No, wait,” I said in a rush, “don’t hang up. I’m, I’m…”
I’m what? Think, Jensen, think.
“His mother, Louise Larsen, asked me to call.” The lie rolled out of my mouth quickly, but I didn’t think Louise would mind. “We’re trying to retrace Stephen’s activities before the shooting, and he had this number listed—”
“Look,” she said, cutting me off again, “I’ll tell you what I told the police. I refer—referred—calls like that,” her voice cracked, “to Ben.”
“So you did talk to Stephen?” I felt a rush of excitement.
“I don’t remember.” Her voice sounded sullen.
“But the call would’ve been transferred to Ben—why?”
“Ben handles—” She caught herself. “—handled, all requests for information, interviews, anything to do with the press. If this guy identified himself as a writer, I automatically would have bucked the call to Ben. So would everyone else on staff.”
“I see…” I paused for a moment. “Do you know if Ben did talk to Stephen?”
“No.”
“Does anyone know?”
“Maybe his girlfriend, Gina Torreli.”
“Do you know how I can contact her?”
“Lady,” she huffed, “I don’t know who you are, but her boyfriend just got killed. You should leave her alone!”
The crash of the phone slamming down sounded in my ear.
That went well, I thought sarcastically. I definitely needed to work on my people skills.
Rushing downstairs, I whipped out the Des Moines phone book and looked up the name Torreli. There was one listing: Torreli, G. The address was at an apartment complex in West Des Moines, about thirty minutes from here. Since I’d muffed it with the young woman w
orking for Krause, I decided not to call. I’d show up at her apartment.
Going back upstairs, I quickly put on makeup and changed into capris, a decent shirt, and a pair of sandals. I hurried down the stairs and to my office. Sticking my head in the door, I saw Darci still typing away.
Her blond hair tumbled around her face as if she’d pulled her hands through it again and again. A pencil was clutched tightly in her teeth while she muttered to herself.
“Hey, I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I said.
She nodded, her eyes never leaving the computer screen.
“If I’m not back before you leave, lock up, okay?”
No response.
“Okay?” I asked again.
She paused her typing and waved a hand in my direction.
I guess that meant she would. As I crossed the living room, I heard the sound of her sweet voice coming from my office.
Gee, I didn’t know Darci knew those words.
Twenty-Five
The apartment complex sat on the west side of Des Moines, right off Interstate 80. I knew exactly where it was located due to their numerous TV ads, which showed young professionals living there.
The tan buildings were all the same: two levels with decks off the back of each apartment in long rows, forming a square around a huge parking lot. Locating Gina’s apartment, I parked the car and walked up to the door.
I rang the bell and waited.
The door opened with the security chain still in place. I saw half of a young woman’s face peeping at me through the gap in the door.
“Are you Gina Torreli?”
“Are you with the police?” she asked, her voice heavy.
Her sudden question surprised me. “No.”
The door started to close. I pressed my hand against it. “No, wait. I’m a friend of Stephen Larsen.”
“Who?”
If she didn’t know Stephen’s name, it didn’t bode well for her having any other information for me.
“Stephen Larsen—the author who was shot last Sunday?”
“Leave me alone.” The door began to close again.
“Wait—I want to talk to you about Ben.”
The eye peering at me through the crack flared. “Ben?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I know this is a difficult time—”
“You have no idea,” she snorted.
“I have ID.” I rummaged around in my purse and grabbed the first one I laid my fingers on. “Here.” I handed it through the crack in the door.
Her eye narrowed as she read it. “This is a library card.”
“Whoops.” I felt my face grow warm. “I am the librarian in Summerset, but I have a driver’s license, too,” I babbled, taking the library card back and handing her my license.
“Why do you want to talk to me?”
“Ben.” I glanced over my shoulder. “May I come in?”
“I guess—how dangerous can a librarian be?” She shut the door, and I heard her removing the security chain. Seconds later the door opened, revealing a small apartment.
The living room and dining area were all one room. A bar, with tall stools lined up on one side, separated the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. A plaid couch faced a big screen TV. On both sides of the TV there were huge stereo speakers.
I felt something at my ankle, and looking down, saw a large, yellow cat rubbing against my bare leg. I leaned over and scratched his ears. “Nice cat…what’s his name?” I asked as the cat rolled over on his back for a tummy rub.
“Brody.”
Straightening, I took my first good look at Gina. She looked like hell. She wore a man’s sleeveless undershirt, apparently without a bra, and running shorts. A white tag stuck out on one leg. She had them on inside out. Her brown hair hung around her face in limp locks, and hollow eyes so dark they were almost black stared at me from a blotchy, red face.
“You wanted to talk to me about Ben?” she asked, turning her back to me and wandering over to the kitchen.
“Yes,” I replied, following her. “I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this, but I’m trying to track Stephen’s activities the week before the shooting.” Pulling out a bar stool, I sat as Gina meandered around the kitchen. “The number for Krause’s campaign headquarters was listed in Stephen’s date book, so I called it—”
“Would you like a Mountain Dew?” Gina opened the refrigerator door and stared inside, not moving.
“No, thank you,” I said with a slight shake of my head. “A young woman told me all inquiries were handled by Ben. Do you know if he ever met or talked to Stephen?”
“I don’t know.” She bent at the waist and reached into the refrigerator. Withdrawing a can of Mountain Dew and a can of Diet Coke, she popped the tabs. She placed the Mountain Dew on the counter and set the Coke in front of me.
“Ah, thanks,” I mumbled, glancing down at the can.
Gina crossed to the cupboard. “Ben’s been distant for the last couple of weeks, and we fought about it.” She swung the door of one cabinet wide and grabbed a small amber bottle. “I thought he was cheating on me.” Pressing her palm down on the white cap, she unscrewed it. “What time is it?” she asked with a tilt of her head and a vague expression.
“Umm…” My eyes flew to the clock above the stove. “One.”
“Okay.”
I watched her mouth move as she counted silently on her fingers up to four. Removing the cap, she shook a tiny pill into the center of her palm, and with one smooth move tossed it in her mouth. She washed it down with a long swig of Mountain Dew. She tottered over to the bar and placing her elbows on the bar, leaned toward me.
I studied her carefully. The reason her eyes appeared black? Her pupils were dilated to the max. Gina’s doped to the gills. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Her voice sounded a little slurred. “It was hard going through Ben’s apartment this morning, so a friend gave me some of her tranquilizers.”
“You shouldn’t take medication that’s not prescribed for you,” I commented sternly.
“I know.” She tried focusing on my face. “But I couldn’t stop crying.”
In her current condition, I worried she might overdose. “Is anyone coming to stay with you?”
“My mom—” Her voice faded. “She’s supposed to be here at two.”
“That’s good.” A paper lying on the counter caught my attention. It was some kind of list.
Gina noticed. “That’s why I thought you were with the police.”
“The paper?”
“Yeah, it’s a list of everything missing from Ben’s apartment.”
I gripped the edge of the bar. “His apartment was burglarized?”
“Last night. Dumb reporter,” she muttered, “putting Ben’s address in the news article.”
Perplexed, I stared down at the paper. This girl wasn’t making much sense.
“Don’t you get it?”
“Ah, no.”
“Thieves check news articles, obituaries, for people who recently died, and get their addresses. If the house is empty…they rob it.” She blinked her bleary eyes. “I heard the cop say they had two other burglaries last night…same deal…people had passed away in the last couple of days.”
“What did they take?”
“I don’t know—I didn’t know the people who died.”
“No, I mean Ben—what did they take from his apartment?”
“Oh,” she said with a wave of her hand, “mostly electronics.” Her head drooped. “I’m sorry, but I’m really tired.”
“Gina,” I said, getting up and going around the bar, “why don’t you lie down until your mother gets here. I’ll stay if you want.”
“Gee, that’s nice,” she mumbled as I helped her to her feet and led her to the couch.
She lay down, and I tucked the afghan on the arm of the couch around her.
“I’m sorry.” She watched me with wide eyes. “But I’m not myself
. One more week and this wouldn’t have happened.”
I crossed over to an armchair left of the couch and sat. “What wouldn’t have happened?”
“Ben—next week, he wouldn’t have been with Krause,” she said, curling a hand under her chin.
“What do you mean, Gina?”
“Ben didn’t like Krause anymore,” she said, her voice faint.
“Ben was going to quit the campaign?” I asked, sitting forward in the chair.
“Yeah,” she replied, her eyelids drifting shut, “quitting. He was going back to his old job at the winery.”
I waited at Gina’s apartment until her mother arrived. She seemed surprised to see a stranger with her daughter, but her main focus was on Gina’s condition. I was able to gloss over any details and was out the door within fifteen minutes.
When I arrived home, Darci had left and locked up as I’d asked. Walking back to the office, I found a note in her swirly handwriting, taped to the screen, I give up—call me, followed by lots of exclamation points.
Smiling, I threw the note away and, accompanied by Lady and T.P., went to change from the capris into shorts and a T-shirt.
As I dressed, T.P. would not leave me alone. He tugged on the shoestrings of my tennis shoes, jumped on the bed, and balanced on his back feet while his front paws rested on my leg.
“You’re bored, aren’t you?” I asked, giving him a scratch behind the ears. “Okay, come on, let’s go.”
He and Lady went scampering from the room, and by the time I made it down the stairs, they were both waiting expectantly by the front door. Grabbing their leashes, I hooked them up and off we went for a walk.
Mid-afternoon on a summer’s day—the air hummed with the sound of lawn mowers, and the smell of fresh mown grass drifted on the slight breeze. The rain last week had given the flowers much needed moisture, and they now bloomed in riots of color. Spicy tea roses, candy cane gladiolas, bright orange California poppies, and golden marigolds had the bees flitting from flower to flower in a frenzy.
Lady and T.P. pranced along next to me with heads held high, sniffing the air. As we passed by, squirrels in the top branches of the maple trees chattered down at the dogs. A couple of cars going by tooted their horns, their drivers giving me a quick wave. Approaching the city park, I heard the sound of children laughing.
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