by David Thurlo
“They were left here at night?” Charlie asked.
“The laptops were always locked in Anna’s office,” Patricia said. “There’s an old gun safe in there that was donated by the family of one of our deceased vets.”
“You have your own personal computers at home?” Ruth asked, looking from person to person. They all nodded.
“And Nathan?” Nancy inquired.
Patricia shrugged. “I’ve only stopped by his apartment to pick up essential paperwork and empty the refrigerator,” she said softly. “I saw an old desktop computer, but if he has another, I didn’t notice. I don’t like being there, though I know, sooner or later, I’m going to have to deal with his stuff.”
Nancy nodded. “I’ll talk to my superiors, and they may want to have a look through his apartment. We can obtain a search warrant for that, if you like.”
“That might be a good idea, to avoid any hint of privacy issues,” Patricia said, looking to Anna for a few seconds. “But I’d like to be there during the search.”
“That will probably have to wait until tomorrow,” Nancy said. “The process usually takes several hours. You’ve got the only set of keys, right?”
Charlie noticed that Nancy started to look back to Anna, then managed to cover the move by glancing up at the clock on the wall. He’d already told Nancy about Nathan and Anna’s old relationship, and knew that Nancy was probably wondering if Nathan had ever given Anna a key.
“I’ve got to get that search warrant request into the system, but first I’ll give you a receipt for all this,” Nancy said, changing the topic. “I don’t know how long it’ll take to examine the computer and papers, but at least it’s not going to hurt your work here—except for the temporary loss of the laptop, of course.”
“One more thing I just remembered,” Max announced. “I think Nathan may have stored some files on the cloud.”
“That’s news to me,” Anna said. “I don’t recall any expenditure like that in the expense account. When did he set it up?”
“About a month ago, I think,” Max replied. “He’d asked me if I thought files were secure in some distant, unknown server, and we talked about it for a while. The next day he said he’d decided to set one up.”
“That might be important, especially if the content is personal,” Nancy said. “Any idea where his user name and password might be?”
“No clue. Maybe he wrote them down in his papers somewhere, or at home, or in his wallet,” Max suggested.
“I haven’t seen anything I thought might be a password among his stuff, and he never mentioned any of his accounts to me,” Patricia said. “We didn’t exchange emails either. How about you, Anna?”
The bookkeeper shook her head. “No personal emails. We were strictly business,” Anna replied through tight lips.
She paused, clearing her throat. “But if we can discover the vendor of the cloud network, we might be able to get online and try to guess his user name and password. A lot of times people use the same passwords for more than one account.”
“That’s true. I’ll make sure the forensics people look for anything resembling a password or user name on the laptop and in his papers,” Nancy said. “Now let me write out a receipt for what I’m taking. I’ve really got to go.”
A few minutes later, Charlie helped Nancy carry the boxes to her squad car while Patricia walked Ruth to Charlie’s rental car. Charlie said good-bye to Nancy, then walked over to join Ruth and Patricia, who were still talking.
“Ruth now has a key to Nathan’s apartment, Charlie,” Patricia said softly. “I was hoping you might go over there tonight and look around. But wear gloves and don’t leave any sign that you were there, please?”
“Is there something else I should know about?” Charlie asked.
Ruth looked up at him. “Patricia says that Anna and Nathan were—dating—when Back Up first opened. That relationship ended after several months, though, and there were hard feelings.”
Patricia nodded. “It’s something that happened when Nathan and I were apart, so I just learned to deal with it and I’ve kept it a secret. But now I want to make sure there aren’t any letters or photos or items that might prove embarrassing, not only to Anna, but to Back Up.”
Patricia’s face had turned red. “And if you happen to come across anything that’ll help track down Nathan’s killer, great. I know Detective Medina will do what she can to speed up the police search, but every night the killer is out there, someone, especially you, could be in danger.”
“So, if I find something that concerns Nathan and Anna’s relationship, you want me to bring it to you or destroy it? I can’t do that.” Charlie explained.
“I know. Take photos if it’ll help, but leave anything you find in place. Just let me know if it might cause a problem. I don’t think Anna realizes I’m aware of her affair with Nathan, but, like I said, I need her right now. Anna is essential in keeping Back Up running,” Patricia said.
“I don’t think the police will have the need to tell anyone about the relationship unless it leads to a suspect. Don’t worry, Nancy is discreet, and so is Detective DuPree,” Ruth mentioned.
“Well, maybe there’s no need for Charlie to go into the apartment at all. But we still want to find out how to access that cloud. One more thing is bothering me. Why would Nathan need to put files, photos, or whatever where only he could access them? Was he up to something that may have put him in danger, and ended up getting himself killed?” Patricia asked. “Or was he just looking for a new way of protecting Back Up files?”
Charlie shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Chapter Eighteen
Charlie parked the pickup in the parking slot that had belonged to Nathan Whitaker. It was actually Whitaker’s vehicle, loaned by Patricia, and though he felt strange driving the vehicle of a dead man, it was something he’d done before during some of his more rebellious years away from home.
Traditional Navajos, however, would have avoided the personal property of the dead, vehicles included. He thought of the “dead” hogans he’d seen sometimes on the Rez while growing up. They’d been abandoned, of course, because the evil in a dead person was said to remain close to the site of their passing. The unfortunate survivors of that family were forced to find new lodging, often with close relatives.
“Good tactic, us representing the executors of his estate,” Gordon mentioned as they stepped out of the vehicle. He adjusted his tie, but kept the light suit jacket unbuttoned. It was a hot afternoon. “Considering the fact that it’s still broad daylight and we can expect to be seen by renters coming home from work.”
“Nancy and DuPree are still waiting for the paperwork to do the search, so now’s the only time we have. Nancy said they hope to be approved by midmorning tomorrow,” Charlie said, locking the pickup with a touch of the key fob.
He stopped and took a look at the apartment doors on the ground floor of the four-story brick structure. “Room 108 is over here.” He pointed to the west side of the structure, then led the way down the sidewalk that bordered the lawn, which encompassed the grounds on the east and west sides of the building. It quickly became clear that Whitaker’s apartment was the last one on this side.
They remained quiet as they walked, nodding to a man in a suit just opening the door of apartment 107 as they approached. The man turned to face them.
“You relatives or cops?” the man asked. “I knew Nathan, and everyone here is sorry for his loss. I hope the guy who blew himself up yesterday was the killer.”
Gordon stepped up immediately, extending his hand. “I’m James Stinchcomb and this is my associate Nabor Malka. We represent the Whitaker estate, and are here to photograph the belongings of the deceased.” He brought out an expensive camera taken from the shop inventory.
The man shook both their hands. “I’m Greg, and I really appreciate all the work Nathan was able to do for our vets at Back Up. One of my cousins is a vet and a client. He’s on a
job right now in Phoenix. Tell the Whitaker family that I keep recommending Back Up to every vet I meet. Spread the word, as Nathan always said.”
“We’ll do that. Have a good evening, Greg,” Charlie said, turning back toward apartment 108 as the man went inside.
Glancing through the curtains of the single west-facing window, they couldn’t make out any objects except for what appeared to be the backside of a sofa. Ahead, attached to the brass doorknob by a rubber band, was some kind of flier.
Charlie inserted the key, then turned the knob and opened the door. There was a low, very distinctive sound, ending with a click, as he stepped inside.
“Was that a door closing?” Gordon, right behind him, whispered.
Charlie scanned the room quickly. There was a kitchen area to the east behind a waist-high partition, but no outside door. The sound came from the short hall, where there were three more doors. The closest one, on the west side, had to be a closet judging from the distance to the outside wall. The south door was open slightly, revealing a tile floor and obvious bathroom.
Charlie pointed to the closed door on his left, the bedroom, then brought out his backup pistol from his pocket, shifting to his right to cover the closed door from the corner. Again he heard a noise—this time clearly coming from the bedroom.
“Police officer!” Gordon lied, bringing out his own weapon. “Come out slowly with your hands up.”
There was a pause, the sound of papers, then Charlie smelled something familiar. “Smoke!” he called out. “He’s lit a fire!”
Gordon, having inched up against the living area wall, peeked around the corner. Smoke drifted out from under the closed door. There was the sound of a sliding window and a sudden gust of smoke.
“He’s bailing!” Charlie realized, turning and heading for the outside door. “Kick down the door and put out the fire!”
Charlie ran outside and reached the building corner just as a figure in sweats and a hoodie went over the cinder block wall at the back of the apartment property. He raced across the lawn toward the wall, shoving the pistol back into his pocket. In the background, he heard the sudden, nerve-grating screech of a smoke alarm.
The wall was about six feet high, no problem for Charlie to clear, but he could hear the tear of his dress pants and feel the burn of his knees scraping against the stone-hard blocks as he came over the top. He landed in the hard ground of a dry utility easement and saw the burglar nearing the street at the end of the block. This guy could sprint, Charlie realized, as he took off after the running figure, but he’d been a distance runner back in school. Charlie knew he’d be able to catch up to the guy, despite the suit and street shoes, unless the guy had parked his vehicle within a block. At least it wasn’t the bosque this time.
Not wanting to slow down by pulling out his cell phone, Charlie concentrated on his stride. The packed dirt made running easy, unlike the sand along the river or the rock-littered ground he’d experienced in Afghanistan. The gray hoodie guy took a hard left at the street, disappearing from view due to the cedar fence at the end, but Charlie had already cut the guy’s lead in half.
Reaching the end of the alley, Charlie cut left and saw the guy running down the sidewalk to the east. Ahead was a street full of traffic in the afternoon rush hour, and the guy would have to cut to the right or circle the block.
Charlie had narrowed the gap to maybe a hundred feet now, slowing just a bit in anticipation of a sudden left or right. Instead, the guy ran right out into traffic.
Cars braked, tires screeched, and drivers swerved, but the guy made it across the street without a scratch. Charlie thought about making the run, stepped out into the street, and had to jump back onto the sidewalk as a driver in a commercial van changing lanes nearly ran him down. Shaking at the near miss, Charlie had to laugh as the driver slowed just long enough to give him the one-finger salute.
Then he saw an opening. Charlie dashed out to the center, waited for a car to pass by in the far lane, then hurried to the sidewalk, ignoring the honks and shouts of another stressed-out driver as he looked for the burglar.
The guy had disappeared into the crowded Smith’s grocery parking lot, so Charlie had to come up with a quick strategy. His target was likely headed for a vehicle in the lot, not being stupid enough to go inside the grocery, where cameras could record his passage. The burglar might be able to hunker down in a vehicle, or just drive away.
He’d concentrate on checking out the cars and vehicles several slots back from the street but still at a distance from outside store cameras. Charlie brought out his smartphone, ready to record a video if he saw someone that fit the description of the burglar. He walked down the rows just to the left of center, alert to anyone in a vehicle, ignoring people with shopping carts or a companion.
An old gold Chevy sedan pulled out several vehicles down, having backed into the slot, and he started filming with the camera immediately. The driver was a blond woman wearing a baseball cap, and she looked familiar. She didn’t look his way, so all he got was a profile as she turned and headed toward the entrance.
Charlie picked up the pace, jogging to keep the vehicle as close as possible. She turned sharply at the end of the row, forcing a man carrying groceries to jump back, then raced out of the parking lot onto a side street. He stopped recording; there were too many objects between him and the vehicle.
He moved out of the way of a passing car, then headed toward the end of the block, where there was a stoplight. Recalling that there had been a fire in Whitaker’s apartment when he left, he hustled across the street at the pedestrian walk, then, once across, jogged back at a reasonable pace. The lack of sirens suggested that Gordon had managed to extinguish the fire, so he slowed down to a brisk walk. He didn’t see smoke anywhere, and recalled having seen a fire extinguisher in the apartment over by the kitchen. Not that he’d need one—Gordon was smart and capable of dealing with anything.
He decided to try and contact Gordon. His pal answered immediately.
“Charlie, where are you? Any luck catching the burglar?” came Gordon’s voice.
“The bastard—or more likely the bitch—got away. I’m headed back,” Charlie answered. “What about the fire?”
“It’s out. Just a paper fire in a metal wastebasket to divert our attention. I’m venting the apartment now. I also called Nancy. She’s on her way and sounds pissed. What’s this about ‘the bitch’?”
“It’s just a guess, but I think the burglar was a woman, maybe even Anna Brown. She drives a gold Chevy. Call Nancy and tell her that the perp disappeared into the parking lot of the Smith’s over at Fourth and Orchard. Slender, about five foot eight, dark blue sweatpants, gray hoodie, and white running shoes. Also brown gloves, leather, I think. I didn’t get a face-on look, just enough of a profile to verify that the person looked like Anna. Facial coloration and blond, shoulder-length hair all fit her, however. If this was the burglar, and I think it was, she’d shed the hoodie and put on a red cap.”
“Did you see the license plate?” Gordon asked.
Charlie stopped on the sidewalk. “Let me check my cell and see if I caught that.”
“You got her on camera? Good man.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know how clear it is.” Charlie ended the call, then played back several seconds of video. He froze the image and saw the plate number and letters immediately. There were also several military bumper stickers visible.
He called Gordon again. “Hey, bro, it’s NHE-440, and I’m almost a hundred percent it’s Anna Brown’s car. Pass that along, okay?”
“Right. Okay. See you when.” Gordon ended the call.
By the time Charlie returned, there was an APD squad car at the street and several residents were out on the lawn or standing in their doors, wondering what was going on. As Charlie approached Gordon, an APD officer, and the guy next door, Greg, Charlie also noticed a metal trash can on the grass. Next to it was an oven mitt, a small fire extinguisher, and what looked like an old-schoo
l hardcover business ledger. The ledger had a black oval in the middle.
“So you put out the fire by the book,” Charlie joked, pointing to the ledger.
“Yeah. Smothered the burning paper. Found the fire extinguisher later and brought it along just in case,” Gordon responded, looking down at the tear in the knees of Charlie’s suit pants. “You take a dive, bro?”
“Naw. I just couldn’t leap over that block wall in a single bound. Skinned my knees, I guess,” Charlie admitted sheepishly. “Probably frightened some shoppers over at Smith’s as well. Running around, looking into cars like a deranged businessman.”
“But at least you have an ID on the burglar. Nancy’s going to go by Anna Brown’s apartment first, but she wants us to stick around.”
“Hang on,” Charlie said. Several seconds went by. “Okay, done. Wanna take a look?”
“Why not just talk to Anna personally? I think that’s her,” Gordon said, pointing to a gold Chevy pulling up at the curb behind the police car.
Anna Brown, wearing the dark sweats, white shoes, and a gray hoodie but minus the red cap, climbed out of the car and walked toward them. “Charlie, are you okay? I need to apologize for the mess I made, and for running away like that. I just panicked. The papers I burned in the wastebasket were personal, and I was embarrassed that someone would find them. I hope nothing else was damaged. I’m so sorry,” she added, wiping tears from her eyes as she looked at the items on the grass.
The uniformed police officer came out of the apartment just then, looked at Anna, then to Charlie, who nodded.
“This is the woman you want to talk to, Officer Roseberg,” Gordon said.
“The woman you say fled the apartment, the person you chased, Mr. Henry?” Roseberg asked. “Miss.…?”
“Brown, sir,” Anna said, reaching out to shake the hesitant officer’s hand. “Anna Brown. I confess to setting the fire in the trash can, but only to destroy some embarrassing personal mail. I didn’t intend on hurting anyone, or damaging someone else’s property.”
