Needled to Death

by Annelise Ryan

  “You don’t?” he says. “I wondered at the age difference when you asked me to dinner. Thought it a bit odd.”

  “To be honest, I thought you were five years or so younger than you are,” I tell him. “And age is not an issue for me anyway.”

  “Right,” Bob says, clearly not convinced.

  A waitress shows up with our mushrooms and our salads, and I can tell she senses the awkwardness at our table. Her attempts to be light and cheerful fall as flat as a punctured balloon. She hurries off, appearing eager to escape the miasma of tension surrounding us.

  “I know you can’t be R,” I tell Bob, leaning across the table toward him. I grab the large fork in the dish of sizzling mushrooms and spear one of them, moving it onto my plate. Then I spear a second one and put it on his.

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.” I smile and wink at him. Then I dole out two more mushrooms, one to him and one to me. “I saw him once, you see,” I go on. “Not up close and not very clearly, but I saw him well enough to know that he wasn’t nearly as tall as you. And his feet were a lot smaller.”

  Bob is still staring at me with that suspicious look on his face, but as I fork out the last four mushrooms, divvying them up between us, I see his gaze briefly divert as the luscious aroma wafts up toward his face.

  When I’m done, I lean back in my seat and smile. “I invited you out to dinner for one reason only,” I say. “Because I find you attractive and want to get to know you better. That’s it.”

  “What about the Cochran thing?” he says. “You didn’t invite me to dinner hoping it would give you another chance to try to convince me to look into the case?”

  I start to say no reflexively, but I catch myself. “Okay, so two reasons,” I admit with a sheepish smile. “But the Cochran thing is totally secondary. I asked Mattie Winston about you several weeks ago, when I first met you during the Paulsen case.”

  Bob winces briefly when I mention this earlier case—not surprising, since it involved the death of a young girl. He then stares at me, seeming to weigh my testimony like the experienced cop he is. Apparently, he finds my story truthful enough. Either that, or he can’t bear to ignore the delicious smells emanating from the mushrooms a second longer. His arms unfold, his face relaxes, and he reaches for his fork.

  “Okay, fair enough,” he says, slicing into one of the mushrooms with the side of his fork.

  I put a bite of one into my mouth and close my eyes for a moment, savoring the flavors. “Oh my, these are good,” I say after I’ve swallowed.

  Bob is staring at me again, but his expression is one of amusement now. He takes a bite himself, letting it roll around in his mouth.

  “You know,” I say, deciding to take advantage of his momentary gustatory ecstasy, “I don’t really need you to look into the Cochran case.” I stab another bite. He is chewing, so he questions my statement with an arch of his brows rather than with words. I comply. “I got into Toby Cochran’s laptop all by myself.”

  With that, he spits out his mushroom.

  Chapter Eleven

  “You did what?” Bob says, glaring at me. He picks up his napkin and dabs at his mouth, scowling over the top of it.

  “I got into Toby’s computer. I made some copies of his fingerprints at his house and used one to bypass the password.”

  “You made copies of the fingerprints,” Bob says in a tone of disbelief.

  “I did.” I smile at him. “They were quite good, if I do say so myself.”

  “How?”

  “Some lead pencil shavings, some face powder, some clear packing tape, plain copy paper, and some makeup brushes I had lying around.” I shrug. “It wasn’t all that hard. I’m sure they aren’t good enough to hold up as evidence in court, but one of them was good enough to get me into that laptop.”

  Bob drops his napkin, leans back in his chair, and stares at me. His expression is an odd mixture of admiration, appalled amazement, and irritation, like the look one of my foster parents gave me when she saw how many candy bars I’d been able to lift at the grocery store without getting caught.

  “Okay,” Bob says. He looks away, off across the room, screwing his mouth up as his tongue works to loosen something stuck in his teeth. Nice teeth, I note. “Clearly you are both resourceful and highly motivated,” he says in a tone of voice that suggests “resourceful” and “highly motivated” are code for “a pain in my ass” or something equally unflattering. “Did you find anything interesting on the laptop?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet,” I admit. “I got into it right before I had to leave to meet you. All I had time to do was change the password and disable the fingerprint ID.”

  “You need to hand that laptop over to me.” Bob says this in a firm voice, though I detect a distinct lack of conviction. I think he knows I’m not going to do what he wants.

  “I’ll give it to you when I’m done with it,” I say. “But I want to look at it first. I promised his mother I would. And you haven’t officially reopened this case, have you?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Bob says. I can see his exasperation growing, and just when I think he’s about to truly lose his temper with me, our food arrives.

  The waitress sets our dishes down with a flourish and a running commentary of what I suspect are rehearsed lines she uses all the time—how nice we look, how good the food smells, how much she likes my hairdo, how smart our menu choices are, how handsome Bob is—that sort of thing. Once again there is a palpable cloud of tension hovering over our table, however, and it makes her lines sound more forced than what I imagine they typically do. She departs quickly, looking relieved to escape.

  Bob says, “I could have you arrested, you know.”

  “Could you?” I say in my best sarcastic voice. “For what?”

  “Withholding evidence,” he grumbles.

  “Well, you haven’t reopened the case, so there’s no evidence to be had officially, and I think you need a warrant to access something like a computer, don’t you? Or at the very least permission from Toby’s mother. And I’m not withholding the evidence, if it even is evidence. I told you I’d give it to you once I get a look at it. Or . . .”

  I let this final option hang in the air between us, like a ticking time bomb. Bob narrows his eyes, trying his best to be angry with me, or at the very least, annoyed, but he isn’t pulling either one off. My years in the foster system and my training as a social worker have made me very good at reading people, and I can tell Bob is intrigued, amused, and entertained by my efforts, even though he wants to be angry. His professional persona is warring with his personal one, and in a matter of seconds the personal one wins out.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” he says to my unstated option. And to punctuate this comment in the most literal sense, he stabs a piece of sausage from his plate and pops it into his mouth. I watch him a moment, the way he savors the first bite, chewing slowly, relishing the flavors in his mouth. But the way he saws off another bite of sausage, attacking the link with his knife and fork in a savage, vicious manner, makes me back off on my smugness a little.

  “I thought that you and I could look through the laptop together, tonight after dinner,” I tell him. “I’m willing to share it with you, under one condition.”

  He chews, eyeing me with amused irritation, waiting.

  “I want to help with the investigation. I will accept whatever outcome we arrive at, and I promise not to get in the way, or compromise evidence if it turns out there is something more to Toby’s death.”

  “You’re already in the way and have potentially compromised evidence,” Bob says. It’s a challenge, but judging from the twinkle in his eye, I suspect it’s not a serious one. I say a silent prayer that I’m reading him right.

  “I do have the laptop in my possession,” I counter, taking a bite of my lasagna and letting the taste explode in my mouth.

  “Yes, you do. A foolish move on your part. Look at your size and look at me,” Bob
says with a hint of menace in his smile. “Who do you think will win if we wrestle over it?” He awaits my answer by shoving a whole ravioli in his mouth.

  “You could take it from me, true enough,” I say, feigning a worried look for a few seconds. Then I smile and deliver my coup de grâce. “But you’re forgetting one thing. I gained access to the laptop long enough to change the password. I also disabled the fingerprint ID. So right now, the only person who knows how to get into that computer is me.” Following his style, I eat another mouthful of lasagna.

  Bob stabs a ravioli and holds it aloft on his fork. “Well played, Ms. Schneider,” he says. He pops the ravioli in his mouth, chews, and swallows. I wait, feeling smug but trying not to look it. “So where are we going to examine this laptop—your place or mine?” he asks once he swallows.

  “We could pick someplace neutral.” As soon as these words leave my mouth I want to take them back. Unless my neutral location is a motel room, I’ve just blown any hope I might have had of building a little romantic tension. Then again, this is a first date, and despite some people’s belief that one can hop into bed with someone they find attractive for any reason and at any time, I’m a bit more old-school than that. And I suspect Bob is, too, since Mattie told me he hasn’t had a lot of relationship experience. I’ve had several relationships over the years, but they’ve all failed, so I’m no paradigm for success in the romance department, either.

  “How about Dairy Airs?” Bob says. “We could go there for some coffee and dessert after we’re done here.”

  “That could work,” I say, deciding dessert helps make up for any lack of romantic headway.

  “Okay, then, we have a deal,” Bob says. He stabs a piece of sausage and puts it in his mouth. After chewing for a few seconds, he swallows and sighs. “I’m going to have to do a bunch of extra reps tomorrow morning to make up for all of this,” he says, waving his fork over his plate.

  “Reps?” I say. “Do you belong to a gym?”

  “I do,” he says with some pride. “I’ve been a dedicated customer for the past two and a half years, ever since getting shot. I used to be, well, a lot bigger than I am now. Getting shot gave me a new lease on life, and I’m a workout fanatic now. You should try it.”

  “Getting shot?” I say, nearly choking on my bite of lasagna.

  “No,” Bob says with a snort of laughter. “That came out wrong. I meant you should try working out at the gym.” His expression sobers and he stares at me, horrified. “I didn’t mean to imply . . . I mean, you’re not . . .”

  “Don’t get yourself in a tizzy,” I say, holding up a hand to stop his bumbling attempt at an apology. “I’m self-aware when it comes to my body. I know I need to lose some weight, and I also know I should exercise more.” I put down my fork and lace my hands together, elbows on the table. “I accept your invitation,” I tell him. He looks momentarily confused, no doubt wondering what the hell he invited me to. Technically, he didn’t invite me to anything, though the implication was there. “What time do you normally go to the gym?”

  His face relaxes then as he gleans my meaning. “I usually get there at five in the morning, work out for an hour and a half, and then I shower and head to work so I can be there by seven.”

  I consider this. “Well, I have to be to work at seven, too, but I’m afraid that my after-shower preparations are a bit more involved than yours.” I cup the ends of my hair with my palm. “It takes some work to look this good, you know.”

  Bob smiles and takes another bite of pasta.

  “And I don’t think I could or should try to work out for an hour and a half,” I tell him. “The most exercise I get these days is walking my dog, Roscoe.”

  “Walking is good.”

  “Yes, well, it would be better if I was the one walking him most of the time. But my neighbor’s eleven-year-old daughter, P.J., walks him way more than I do. Those two have a love affair going on.”

  “What kind of dog is he?”

  “A golden retriever. Sweet, smart, and affectionate. Kind of like me.”

  This segue effectively alters our conversation for the rest of the meal. We chat about our jobs, past cases—always in general terms that don’t include the names of those involved—and mundane things like the weather, the economy, and local politics. When our meal is done, we pass on dessert, exchanging a look between us that says our prior plans are still on. I pay the bill per our earlier arrangement, and then the two of us head outside to our respective cars.

  Chapter Twelve

  Minutes later Bob and I arrive at Dairy Airs, a restaurant owned by a local farm family. They raise dairy cattle, so the place specializes in dairy-related foods: cheese sandwiches, cheesecakes, ice creams, milkshakes, and some specialty custards and puddings. Bob and I each park in an empty spot, his three spaces down from mine. His car, I note, is a nondescript, older-model dark blue sedan that to me screams undercover cop. We meet at the door to go inside.

  “This one is my treat,” he says, holding the door for me.

  “Okay. You choose the seat.” I walk beneath his outstretched arm without having to duck or stoop.

  He picks a two-person table at the far end of the place. It’s in a corner nook by a window, but thanks to variations in the land outside, we are elevated too high for anyone to see directly in. Bob grabs a chair that is positioned with its back to the front of the restaurant, moves it perpendicular so that it’s facing toward the window, and motions for me to sit in it. I do so, realizing that while this gives me a better window view, it puts my back to the main part of the restaurant. Bob takes the remaining seat, which backs against a wall, giving him a view of the entire restaurant. It seems we will be rubbing elbows as well as knees, though I’m not foolish enough to think his arrangement has any romantic inclinations behind it. He simply wants to be in a good position to see the laptop screen along with me, but also to monitor any nosy people who may be near us.

  A waitress arrives seconds after Bob is seated, and though she gives him a quizzical look over his altered seating arrangement, she doesn’t comment. She does, however, greet him by name. “Bob Richmond! How are you?”

  “I’m good, Tabby. How are you?”

  “Can’t complain. I could, but who’d listen?” She laughs at her own joke while Bob and I both chuckle politely. “Can I get you some water for now, or do you know what you want? You haven’t been here in a while.”

  “I know what I want,” Bob says, “but I’m not sure if Hildy here does.” He shoots me a questioning look.

  “Would you like to see a menu?” Tabby asks.

  I shake my head. “What flavors of cheesecake do you have tonight?”

  Tabby rattles off a mouthwatering list of culinary delights, and I settle for a slice of Baileys and Kahlúa cheesecake with a cup of coffee.

  “I’ll have the same,” Bob says.

  Tabby hustles off and I, eager to get to the task at hand, take out Toby’s laptop. I set it on the table, open it, and turn it away from Bob’s watchful eye. He sighs, but doesn’t protest, and as soon as I have typed in the password, I turn the computer so he can see the screen as well. He’s barely had time to study the desktop icons when Tabby brings our desserts and coffee, forcing me to turn the computer away again. As soon as she is gone, Bob and I look at the laptop’s desktop with eager curiosity.

  “He has an email program,” I say, pointing to the icon I’d clicked on earlier. “How about we start there?”

  Bob nods and I launch the program. As it opens, Bob reaches over and places a hand atop mine. “The Wi-Fi here may not be secure,” he says in a low voice.

  “I think we’re okay. When I was on here earlier I saw that Toby has top-notch virus software. It popped up with a window that showed me it had identified, isolated, and removed some malware, and had done a virus scan in the last twenty-four hours. Besides, I don’t think we’re looking for any government secrets here.”

  “Who knows?” Bob says, surprising me. Then I deci
de he’s just kidding me.

  I see that we have our work cut out for us as the mail program downloads a little over two weeks’ worth of emails, filling the inbox with new items. We eliminate twenty or so as spam, and another twelve that are news feeds from several online sources. The remainder appear to be from three individuals, a conversational thread with a subject line of “No More.”

  Tracing backward on the chain of emails, we find it originated with Toby, who sent it to each of the three respondents two days before he died. It reads:

  I’m sorry, I thought I could let it go but I can’t. Physical distance hasn’t given me the necessary psychological or emotional distance I need. I hope you all understand.

  The first reply is from someone named Mitchell Sawyer, who simply says that he agrees and understands. The second response is from a Liam Michaelson, and it says:

  Don’t overreact, Toby. You’re getting in over your head. Walk away.

  Toby replies to Liam’s email with a reiteration of his determination to see it brought to a halt, though he doesn’t clarify or mention what “it” is. At this point, someone named Alex Parnell enters the fray with:

  Toby, let it go. It’s not worth what it will cost you in the end. Don’t try to be a hero. Heroes often end up dead.

  “Well, there’s our first hint of a death threat,” I say to Bob.

  He makes a dismissive face. “Not much of one. A warning perhaps, but generic enough that I don’t give it much credence. Let’s read the other ones.”

  In between bites of cheesecake and sips of coffee, we wade through the rest of the thread. The next email is another reply from Liam.

  Alex is right, Toby. Get on with your life and quit trying to ruin ours.

  Toby fires off a reply that he is not trying to ruin anyone’s life but is, in fact, trying to save others from suffering in the future. This prompts another response from Mitchell.