by Janet Dailey
Hoebel frowned. “A detective. RJ Bannon. He’s one of my officers, actually. Benched for months, nothing to do but stir up trouble with an old case. You know, the unsolved Montgomery kidnapping.”
“Never heard of it.”
Hoebel winced. “I have a feeling your mother wasn’t even born when it happened. Let alone you.”
“So what’s the big deal?” Paul asked without much interest.
“I guess you missed the newscast.”
“Dude, please. I don’t even own a TV.”
“It was on the station website. Guess you missed that too.”
“I’m busy.” Paul rolled his eyes to emphasize that point. “College classes plus this—I mean, I love getting paid, don’t get me wrong. And it’s kind of a hoot to hack the accounts of a crooked rich guy, but that doesn’t mean I want to know everything about him, outside of that he owes you some money.”
“He owes me a lot of money,” Hoebel growled.
“You know, I never asked. What do you do for him, collect debts?” Paul asked in a breezy tone. “Break heads?”
Hoebel glared at him. “Rewind that.”
“Huh?”
The kid was young enough never to have seen an actual, rewindable videotape in a black plastic box. Hoebel felt like a dinosaur. “Go back to the part where you never asked,” he snapped. “And remember it.”
Something menacing in the older man’s tone got a little respect from Paul. “Okay.” He put up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Whatever you say.”
“And let me see that security tape again.”
Paul opened it in a media program and Hoebel watched in silence. Something about Bannon’s watchfulness made him uneasy. The guy was a pain in the ass, but he was a good detective and no fool. However, Bannon hadn’t been able to spot the hidden vidcams. The chief knew Bannon would’ve avoided them or covered them if at all possible.
“Are we done with this?” Paul asked, faking politeness.
“Yeah, but can you copy it from his computer?”
A few clicks and the video file was invisibly stolen and transferred to a file on the hacker’s laptop.
“I don’t think I need it, but you never know. She had a legit reason to be there, and she had the key,” he said. “Erin Randall is an artist—she did a painting of the old mansion. So that’s what the fifteen thousand was for, I guess. He commissioned something new.”
“His note has it as an advance on a painting of a horse.”
“Take All?”
Paul peered into the screen. “That’s the name. Why would anyone pay that much money for a painting of a horse?”
The chief shrugged. “People do. Montgomery can afford it.”
“Not really.”
Hoebel blew out an exasperated breath. “Fifteen thousand is still small change to him. Just do what I pay you for and keep looking.”
“You bet,” Paul said. “I’m on it. Let’s start with the reward money in trust and check again. Looks like—hmm. Nope. It’s all still there. Two million and change.” He snooped through an activity log in a hidden directory. “Montgomery’s been into the trust files, though, every day. But all he does is change the name of the beneficiary.”
Hoebel suddenly looked a lot more alert. “Who is the beneficiary now?”
“Not anybody,” the hacker amended his statement. “He just deletes Ann Montgomery. Then the space is blank for, like, an hour, then he types her name back in again. According to the activity log, he’s been doing it over and over for a couple of days, off and on. Like he can’t make up his mind.”
“If he’s in the reward files that often, we can’t make a grab. He’ll know right away.”
“Well, we could, if I write fake code that would make it look like the dough was still there when it’s really in your account,” Paul offered. “But you’d have major explaining to do to the IRS and your bank.” He laughed under his breath. “They’ll think you’re a freakin’ drug lord or something with a money transfer that big.”
“Count on it. But I plan to be in a country with no extradition treaty when we do the deed.”
“When I do the deed, you mean.” The hacker smirked at him. “You tired of fighting crime?”
“Yeah,” Hoebel said. “It doesn’t pay too well. No matter what they say.”
Paul began to hum tunelessly again. “So long as you don’t get caught.”
Hoebel’s eyes narrowed. It had occurred to him that the kid might be setting him up for a sting. Paul seemed awfully casual about everything he was doing. “Don’t you worry about that?”
“Nah.” Paul stopped typing on the keyboard and leaned way back in his swivel chair. “I’m working for a real police chief. Hey, do I get a toy badge? Or a tour of the station?”
“No.”
“That’s not fair. You law enforcement types have extremely cool software and databases. How about some free downloads?”
“Absolutely not.”
The hacker sighed and ran his fingers through his scruffy hair, making it look worse. “I guess I’ll live. But pay me what you owe me.”
Hoebel grunted and reached into his pocket, peeling off several hundreds. Paul took them without counting them and stuffed them into the front pocket of his oversized hoodie. “Thanks. Throw in some overtime once in a while. These late hours are killing me.”
The chief looked at him and something else crossed his mind. “If you’re not watching him, what happens if he suddenly moves the money?”
The hacker went back to his endless clicking around. “Dunno. Maybe he gets a free toaster from the next bank or something.”
“Get serious.”
Paul turned his head away from the screen to gaze calmly at Hoebel. “I get pinged, that’s what happens. I already set up automatic warnings with a line of new code. When I get one, I’ll text you on the cell phone you gave me. Can I take it home when we’re done with Operation Montgomery?”
Hoebel shook his head. “Don’t get attached to it. I’m going to keep changing them on my side and yours, so they can’t be easily traced.”
“Keep spending, dude,” Paul said. “It’s good for the economy.”
“They don’t cost me anything,” the chief said. “I get ’em from the evidence locker. One-stop shopping, know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t. That’s why I wanted a tour of the station.”
Hoebel only laughed and reached for his jacket, stepping over the fast-food trash on the floor.
“You heading out?”
“Yeah. Meeting up with Cutt.”
The hacker’s glasses obscured the expression in his eyes. But his tone of voice made his opinion of the third man clear. “He’s a scary guy.”
“Sometimes.”
Paul began to type again. “His brain shorts out. I can see the sparks in his eyes. What did that?”
“Prison.”
“What was he in for?”
“Assault. Deadly weapon.”
“And you said he used to be a cop?”
“One of the best. But he liked to break the rules.” Hoebel thrust his bulging arms into his jacket sleeves. “Someone snitched on him and he went crazy, half killed the guy. He did hard time for it.”
Paul didn’t turn around when he heard Hoebel open the door to the room so he could leave. “Lock that behind ya,” was all he said.
“You got it,” Hoebel replied.
The chief went up the stairs of his favorite diner, using the large plate-glass window to check out the seated customers until he spotted a lanky man with his legs stretched out under a table. Cutt didn’t seem to notice him as he walked in. He was pouring sugar from a ribbed glass dispenser into a thick mug of coffee.
Hoebel went down the main aisle to the other man’s table. “Hello, Cutt.”
The lanky man only grunted in response, preoccupied with what he was doing. The glass dispenser was nearly empty.
“Save some for me,” Hoebel kidded.
I
n answer, Cutt shook the dispenser hard and the last of the sugar spilled over the table. Brushing it away, he stirred the black brew and took a slow swallow.
Hoebel grimaced. “You drink your coffee that sweet?”
“Sometimes, if I need a cheap rush. I was out drinking. Still feeling it.”
Hoebel studied the other man’s face. There were gray circles under Cutt’s eyes and a tiny muscle jumped at the side of his jaw.
“Yeah? Stay off the hooch. Things are getting interesting.” Hoebel shed his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair upholstered in red vinyl with silver-colored studs.
“What’s going on? You coulda called instead of dragging me out of bed at this hour,” Cutt complained in a low voice.
The chief shrugged. “I prefer talking face-to-face.” He accepted a glass of water from a busboy and asked for menus.
“I don’t. And I hate public places.”
Hoebel folded one hand over the other and leaned across the table. “That’s because your face was famous in all the wrong places for a while. Guess what. I still have an original Most Wanted poster with your mug shot on it.”
The other man told him he could roll up the poster and exactly where to put it.
Hoebel chuckled. “Not unless you autograph it first.”
The other man grunted again and drank the rest of his coffee, a morose expression on his face. Then he asked, “What’s going on?”
The chief opened his menu without really reading it. He knew all the selections by heart. “We’re doing a watch-and-wait. Nothing’s happened. But Paul seems to know his stuff.”
“That punk needs to show some respect.”
The chief looked up from a menu photo of two perfect fried eggs in bacon parentheses. “What happened? He rub you the wrong way?”
“Yeah.”
Hoebel folded his menu and noticed that Cutt hadn’t even opened his. “You can’t be serious. He’s a college kid. You’re an ex-con.”
“He said something about that.”
The chief narrowed his eyes. “Not in my hearing.”
“That’s because you pay him.”
Hoebel scowled. “I’ll straighten him out.”
“Before I do?”
“Yeah,” the chief muttered. His partner in crime could be hard to control.
“Thanks.” Cutt slouched in his seat and yawned, revealing back teeth with a couple of large cavities.
The chief almost flinched. That bit of ugly wasn’t on the Wanted poster, he thought, but it went with the junkyard dog look of Cutt’s face. Meaner than mean.
“Okay. What are you having?” A pretty young waitress was coming their way.
Cutt answered first. “Burger. Rare. Everything else on the side.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have the same thing, Lily,” Hoebel said to the young waitress as she took a pad out of her apron pocket.
He intercepted the nasty look she gave Cutt. What was that about? Looked like they knew each other from somewhere.
“Almost the same,” he amended his order. “Just remind Betty that I like mine well-done,” he said with a wink.
“Sure thing, Chief.” She favored him with a dazzling smile. Hoebel smiled back, then turned to Cutt.
The other man mimicked her reply under his breath. “She likes you, Hoebel. How’d you get so lucky?”
“Excuse me?” The chief’s wary reply made the pretty waitress turn around for a second. Then she kept on going toward the kitchen, suppressing a giggle. “What’s it to you?”
“Leave her alone.”
“Huh?”
“You’re married. Don’t cut in front of us single guys.”
“I didn’t know you were in line.” Hoebel’s tone revealed his irritation. His lukewarm desire for his wife had turned to ice long ago. When it came to women, he flirted with some and slept with the others, given half a chance and an overnight shift at the station. Lily was in the first category, but he was thinking of moving her to the second. Not that it was any of Cutt’s business.
Cutt’s reply was quiet. “Not anymore. Lily turned me down a couple of nights ago. We got to talking and some girl she was with told her where I spent the last seven years.”
“That’s tough.” The chief smiled thinly. “But can you blame her? Doing hard time isn’t a big draw with the ladies.”
“Shut up, Hoebel.” Cutt’s voice was cold and tense. The unforgiving look in his eyes made the chief comply.
“What’s gotten into you?”
Cutt didn’t answer.
“There’s plenty of women in the world to go around,” the chief said finally.
“Not pretty ones.” Cutt’s tone was flat, as if he’d had the last word.
The glitter in his eyes creeped the chief out. Hoebel countered with a distraction. “Forget it. Just forget it.” He looked around. No Lily, gracefully balancing a tray and swaying a little on her long legs. Not even a whiff of a burger from the kitchen. He was hungry. “Guess the grill broke down.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. What were we talking about before?”
“Paul.”
He nodded. “Look, I don’t need to know exactly what he said to you.” Hoebel had no wish to set off Cutt’s hair-trigger temper.
The other man’s eyes darkened. He took several seconds to respond.
“I don’t trust him. A punk like that could be on anyone’s side. In prison, they caused the most trouble.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not in prison,” the chief said. “And he gets damn good pay for being on our side.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, Hoebel. Someone else could be paying him more.”
“Like who?”
“Old man Montgomery.”
Hoebel wished he could laugh that idea away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I don’t think so,” was all he said. “He doesn’t even have the cash to pay me. Basically, he’s a rat in a trap.”
“Set by you? Or by Bannon and the girl?”
Hoebel glared at the other man. “What are you talking about?”
“Like you don’t know. The girl in the security tape you showed me—the one that lawyer, Duncan, gave you behind the old man’s back.”
“Yeah. I had Paul download it again just to keep an extra copy on his laptop. You never know when you’re gonna get subpoenaed. They take your stuff.” He looked at Cutt’s stony expression. “That was a joke.”
“I was thinking that you wanted to look at her wherever you were. You even told me her name. She’s pretty. Prettier than Lily,” he added with a flash of contempt.
The chief didn’t know what to say to that. He was beginning to trust Cutt less than he trusted Paul.
“Get to the point,” he snapped.
Cutt sat up straight, like the cop he’d been once, reminding the chief of an animal run wild that hadn’t forgotten how to act tame.
“She could get in the way, Hoebel. You said so.”
“Maybe.” He had, unfortunately. So sue him—he liked to juice up stories. It made them more interesting for his audience, which was usually rookie cops and wet-behind-the-ears media types and cute waitresses. Not men like Cutt.
“I did a little investigating—on my own. I followed them the other day. They didn’t see me. I went way up in the hills behind her house and watched them for a while.” He didn’t mention seeing her at the art fair for the first time way back before all this crazy crap got started. He’d found out where she lived simply by waiting and following her home. That little house Erin lived in stood out on the rolling land. Lately he’d been keeping an eye on her more and more. Binocs got him the best view, but he used a detached rifle sight sometimes. It was easier to fit in his pocket.
The chief scowled. He didn’t need this. Cutt was unstable—he’d read his psychiatric file before hiring him, exploiting the fact that an ex-con didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of job offers.
Two years ago, Cutt had jumped at the chance to be the muscle behind
Hoebel’s dirty work for Hugh Montgomery, and he’d done a damn good job.
Following Bannon and his arty girlfriend around was volunteer work that wasn’t about doing good. Cutt was headed for a fall.
Maybe it was what the man wanted, the chief thought. Former prisoners could miss the thick concrete walls that had kept them penned up, would violate parole and commit stupid crimes to get back in. They needed the box.
The craziest, like Cutt, sometimes craved solitary. Four walls. No window. Locked away, they were free to scream. No one would come.
“Why did you do that?” Hoebel asked finally.
Cutt’s shadowed gaze didn’t meet his. “I don’t know why. I’ve been restless. Thinking too much, I guess. About everything.”
“Don’t. As far as Montgomery, we have to get paid and get out.”
Their orders arrived at last, but Lily wasn’t the one balancing the tray. It was a guy from the kitchen, someone in a grubby line-cook’s apron. They didn’t bother to say thank you.
The two men doused the grilled burgers with ketchup and forked slices of raw onion on top of that, eating without speaking.
CHAPTER 11
The question for Bannon was where to start looking. He was going more on instinct than anything at this point, with the sketchiest of clues. Three words, “girl of gold,” that weren’t from some old song. Words that seemed machine-printed on a store-bought card, but had been penned in ink. He’d taken screen shots from the digital microscope image, saved them on his laptop.
Bannon touched a key to bring the screen to life. He opened the folder with the screen shots and studied the calligraphy again. He was no expert on the subject, but it seemed flawless, offering no clue to the personality of the writer.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the same person had used the same words on another card. He wanted a much closer look at the sentimental card handcrafted by Ann’s mother. The photos in the scrapbook it had fallen out of might tell him something more about the lonely-looking woman in some of them. His guess: She had been an unhappy wife, married to an oddball who kept his distance from the world. One child dead, one living. Who had known them? Who remembered them now? Bannon had a hunch that the Randall family had hidden in plain sight.
