by Jordan Dane
His sister nodded, her eyes filled with cautious hope. “Do you think she’s there, Joe…in Anchorage? With this teacher?”
“We won’t know until we question the woman, but anything is possible. We’ll call you when we know something.” After Joe gave Susannah’s arm a reassuring squeeze, he fixed his dark eyes on Payton. “You’re driving, hotshot.”
Payton leaned over to give his sister a kiss on the cheek, but before he pulled away, Susannah grabbed his arm.
“Please…find her, Payton. She’s all I’ve got.” Fresh tears filled her tired eyes.
Payton wrapped her in his arms and held her. “You’ve got Joe and me on your side too, sis. We’ll find her.”
He only hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
Downtown Chicago
The late afternoon sun poked through the clouds, resurrecting her mood from the depths of where it had been, but not by much. Still, it felt good to get out from under the dismal clean-up of her apartment. Sam had helped until her shift at Cop Town. Together, they had made progress, but after Sam left, the task became torturous. Once Jess got her front door replaced and secured, she had to get out. And only one thing dominated her mind.
Baker’s damned laptop. And Seth Harper had it.
With feet planted on the sidewalk of Lake Shore Drive, she reread the street address scribbled in her own handwriting, completely stumped. When she looked up to confirm the number, the exclusive condominium project and the spectacular view overlooking the glistening waters of the Chicago harbor baffled her. Scrawled on a piece of torn paper, the address had been taken from her employment record of one Seth Harper, her first and only new hire. And from the outside of the building looking up, she counted the floors to make sure her suspicions were correct.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” She didn’t believe her eyes.
At the light, she walked across the street, making an effort not to limp. Her body still felt battered, one of the reasons she covered up with a long sleeve tee and jeans. In her condition, she’d be a sure standout where she was going, no matter what she had on. The imposing bright red awning and elegant black and gold double doors loomed ahead. She tried not to be intimidated by the fancy real estate. Seth had Baker’s laptop, and maybe by now some of his secrets.
Once Jess got inside the small foyer of imported marble and inlaid gold, a set of security doors barred her access unless she buzzed the correct residence. Seth had given her number 602 as his place. Just as she thought, the little weasel laid claim to—
“The penthouse, my ass.” She crumpled the scrap of paper with his address, jamming it into her pocket.
Most of the other residents had surnames listed beside a button. Hit the buzzer, say your name, and the security doors opened. Simple. Except suite 602 didn’t have a name listed. She buzzed it anyway. Once. Twice. On the third try, she kept her thumb on the buzzer, replicating SOS in Morse code. Still no Seth to chat her up on the intercom or buzz her in.
“Well, I don’t have all day, Harper. Time to improvise,” she muttered under her breath.
One by one she went down the row, punching buttons, like playing Russian Roulette with the rich and famous.
“Publishers Clearinghouse. Prize patrol.”
No reply. She went on to the next one.
“Candy Gram.”
Still no answer.
“Domino’s Pizza. In thirty minutes, I’m hot and ready.”
Buzzzzz. The security door clicked open.
Jess rolled her eyes as she caught the door and went inside, still pondering her new hire. Seth probably lied on his job application, but she had no room to cast stones. She wasn’t above stretching the truth herself. Not too long ago she’d gotten the idea to post a job for a “summer intern” with the weekly Chicago Gazette advertiser. She had stretched reality paper-thin on the job post. And crappy wages was all she could afford, so why pay for an ad? Free was firmly within her budget. If she got a nibble, she’d reel the sucker in. It was worth a shot.
Her subtle subterfuge had been completely free of guilt. After all, who would look for a career worth having in a free paper?
Only one applicant applied. Seth Harper.
To legitimize her freelance Fugitive Recovery enterprise, she actually had the gall to interview the kid, giving her an option to toss his vague pencil-written application if he turned out to be a real flake. In the end, she liked his easygoing nature, and his eagerness charmed her, so she hired him on the spot.
But standing in one of the trendiest locales on the Chicago loop, she found her ego rearing its ugly head—a clear case of double standards she fully condoned. Duping him was fair game, but the other way around was nothing less than insulting.
Damned straight!
“If you lied about living here, Seth, I’m gonna kick your punk ass all the way to Gary, Indiana.”
Once inside the elevator, she punched the button for the penthouse suite. Overhead, a chandelier tinkled as the elevator rose and a high-pitched violin played classical music ad nauseam over the speakers. The overdose of pretentiousness made her edgy. She felt out of place like a decked-out hooker at High Mass, especially when she caught her own reflection in the shiny elevator doors. Even pricy light fixtures did nothing for her appearance.
One side of her face—the already scarred side—had a raised welt at her cheekbone, the size of a fifty-cent piece. The dim lighting didn’t help. If the little ferret misrepresented his home address, she’d make a fool of herself knocking on the door of the Grand Poobah of the posh suites. Mr. Moneybags in 602 might use the boys in blue to give her the bum’s rush from his doorstep. And she didn’t need another beef with the cops.
But when the elevator door opened at the top floor, a sound caught her attention. On massive imported rugs costing some serious coin, she walked toward the noise while gaping at the high ceiling with its elaborate crown molding. Deep rich cherry-wood doors were gilded by gold hardware, and exquisite artwork was displayed under subtle lighting.
Only four suites occupied the floor. And music came from the one down the hall, suite 602. It was a song she recognized—and one she had a hard time picturing the Grand Poobah gyrating to the driving beat. “The Only Song” by Sherwood blasted through the door. The base rhythm rocked the walls. Someone played it loud and proud, and it penetrated through the sound-dampening acoustics of the top-notch construction.
Jess fought a grin. “Harper? If I’m about to make an ass of myself, at least I’m doing it to damn fine tunes.”
When the music died down, ready to shift songs, Jess took a deep breath and punched the doorbell. For good measure she whacked the fine cherry wood with the heel of her fist. From inside she heard the song end and nothing new replace it. She cocked her head and pursed her lips, waiting for someone to open up.
For an added element of mystery, she pressed a thumb to the peephole. Her version of an icebreaker. In no time the door cracked open and Seth peeked over a gold chain.
“Jess, what are you doing here?” He undid the chain and threw the door open, his face in shock when he got a good look at her. “Are you okay? Did the police do that?”
He grimaced and pointed. His eyes took in the fresh damage to her face.
“Don’t be melodramatic, Harper.” She stepped inside and resisted the urge to gawk at his digs. “Cops use rubber hoses. The bruises don’t show as much. Remember that.”
After taking a good look around, she whistled in complete admiration of more than just the panoramic view of Lake Michigan. The kid lived in a regular Taj Mahal, Chi-town style. A damned museum. The best of the best. Exquisite oil paintings and top-of-the-line furnishings were no doubt picked by the hand of the finest interior decorator money could buy. And someone was a big game hunter. Exotic animals in all shapes and sizes adorned the luxury suite, forever frozen with their fierce eyes and barred teeth. Stephen King would have appreciated the eerie cross between House Beautiful and Creep Show.
“Way to g
o, Harper.” She nodded her approval. “How did you score this place?”
The kid jammed his hands into his jean pockets and barely looked at her, giving her an open invitation to yank his chain again.
“And better yet, it doesn’t look like anyone objects to your ear bleedin’ noise decibels. In my hood, the cops would come knockin’ for sure.”
Seth shrugged. “No one else lives on this floor. The other suites are empty.”
Jess narrowed her eyes and studied him. The kid looked like a visitor here, wholly out of place and alone. And he definitely tipped the scales on the forgotten side.
“That’s ’cause not many people have the jack to live here,” she said.
Her voice echoed into the penthouse suite, a hollow, empty sound. And she got a sense that he lived alone. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, but the feeling hit her strong. CDs and DVDs were strewn across a fancy rug near a mile-long velvet divan in the formal parlor dead ahead. Baker’s laptop lay on a sheet of plastic on the rug. But other than that incidental clutter marring the picture perfect decor straight out of Architectual Digest, she couldn’t be sure Seth really lived in suite 602 either.
“It’s not what you think. I just know…” He avoided her eyes again. “…certain people.”
“Okay, now you’re sounding like someone off The Sopranos. Are you ‘connected,’ Seth?”
Jess hooked her fingers in air quotes and grinned, but when his only reply was another lame shrug, she let him off the hook.
“If you don’t wanna discuss it, that’s cool. But just remember, you’re talkin’ to a very stubborn woman. If I wanna know somethin’, all I gotta do is exercise my keen investigative skills.”
She winked and turned her back on him to snoop for real this time. But in a huge beveled mirror in the ostentatious foyer, she caught his reaction. Tall and lanky, Seth’s cheeks blushed with embarrassment. Tousled wavy dark hair curled at his neck, making him look like he’d just crawled out of bed. And she would have killed for his large brown eyes framed by thick lashes, a picture of innocence she could never pull off. The kid was dressed in faded jeans torn at the knee and a black Jerry Springer T-shirt.
Yep, Seth Harper was a real charmer—and one snappy dresser.
But a part of her suspected she shouldn’t envy him. Appearances weren’t always what they seemed. He had an inherent sadness behind those incredible eyes. And that was something she knew about. The kid was a kindred spirit with an ancient soul. Cutting him slack, she changed the subject to relax the poor guy.
“I see you’re working on Baker’s laptop. Does that mean you got through his ID and password?”
He brushed by her, pumped with a sudden rush of adrenaline. He flopped to the carpet sitting cross-legged with the computer propped on his lap. He was wearing thin gloves, no doubt to keep fingerprints off the computer keyboard while trying to unlock Baker’s secrets.
“Yeah, sort of,” he said.
“Let’s hear the ‘yeah’ part first. I’m not in the mood to deal with ‘sort of.’”
“Well, to get past all the security on the laptop, I took out his hard drive and hooked it up to another computer as a second drive, using my own operating system, not his. That bypassed the need to hack into his passwords.”
“Wow. That seems simple.” She grinned. “Does that mean you got the key to his magic kingdom?”
Seth scrunched his face. “Not exactly. Once I got into his hard drive, there were plenty of files to access, but every last one of them was encrypted, of the 256-bit encryption variety. He’s a pretty cagey bastard. Definitely paranoid.”
“256 sounds like a lot of bits.” She pretended to understand his geek speak. “You have any luck hacking into his business?”
“I’m working on it.” He frowned and shrugged. “But can you please refrain from using the word hack in my presence? When cats cough up a hair ball, they hack. What I’m doing takes a little more finesse.”
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Sensitive.” Jess narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll try and remember your skill level is a stroke above a cat with a fur ball.”
“Apology accepted, I guess.” He gave her a sideways grimace. “Normally, getting into a computer is no big deal, not with some of the software I’ve got. But the guy sure knows how to lay down barriers.”
Standing over him, Jess absentmindedly checked out the CDs strewn along the carpet. She had originally thought they were music CDs, but after a closer look, she noticed the shiny disks were marked with black scrawl. Nothing legible, only a cryptic numbering system to identify the bootlegged software, all except for one. But she knew enough about what a crimeware program did to wonder how the hell Seth got his hands on the stuff.
“I thought only identity thieves used crimeware.” She reached down to pick up one of the CDs. “How did you get your hands on this sort of program?”
Seth barely looked up, pretending to focus on his keystrokes.
“I told you. I know…people.”
“People,” she chimed in as she laid the CD down, glad the boy was on her side.
“I thought it might come in handy,” he added, continuing to work.
But after thinking about it, Jess took a second look at his pricy digs and wondered.
“That’s not how you make a living, is it? ’Cause you wouldn’t be livin’ here on the coin I pay you. You do know identity theft and fraud are against the law, right, Seth?”
He stopped what he was doing and glared at her. Jess stood her ground with arms crossed, returning his stare. Deadly serious.
“I can’t believe you had to ask.” He softened his stern expression. Hurt swept over his face. “I get that we really don’t know each other, but what do your instincts tell you?”
He held her gaze without flinching. Seconds on the clock dragged through the quagmire of time, not cutting her a break. She felt the weight of her accusation. Heat rose up her neck and spilled onto her cheeks.
“We’re good.” She nodded. “I mean, yeah, I trust you.”
After a long awkward moment, Seth turned back to his work and Jess breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She didn’t want to live in a world where innocents like Seth Harper could be seduced to the dark side, but that was the reality of it. Good judgment filtered through her powerful cynicism, a reliable measure of human nature until now. She only hoped she wasn’t wrong about him.
“So did you find out anything else?” she asked.
“Yeah, I think so.” He sat with his back against the fancy sofa and his eyes glued to the glowing monitor, ignoring her as she sat across from him in a wing-back chair.
“I sniffed out this strange IP Baker visits. The guy’s not stupid enough to bookmark it, but I noticed he comes to this site—a lot.”
“Strange IP, huh?” She couldn’t resist moving closer, unsure whether he’d let her. “What the hell is an IP? Translate, genius. ’Cause I’m gonna need subtitles in Harperworld.”
The intrigue of Baker’s files drew her in. She invaded Seth’s personal space by sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the carpet. The kid was so enthralled with the computer that he didn’t seem to mind. And apparently he didn’t hold a grudge.
“Harperworld.” He grinned with eyes on the monitor. “Good one. Well, an IP is an Internet Protocol address. It’s unique. The computer version of X marks the spot in cyberspace. Only it’s not that simple.”
With a bad case of the yammers, he went on, working the keyboard and waving his hands in the air as if he could blow the confusion off her face. When he looked at her, he stopped and took a different tack.
“Every Internet provider tags their users with an address or block of codes. Every time the user gets on, the ID can roll and change through a shared block. If you query the IP number, the physical location might bounce to different locales. In other words, there are limitations on what you could learn about an IP. And this information will only take you so far…”
When he went into a spiel on proxy servers,
routers, ISPs, reverse DNS lookups, and anonymizer services, she felt her eyes glaze over. For all she knew, the kid made it all up, except no one could fake the kind of enthusiasm he held for all the technogeek speak.
“Yeah, but did the pervert leave any incriminating proof we can turn over to the cops?”
Jess knew the chain of evidence had been broken and any proof on Baker’s laptop would be inadmissible in court, unless she found a clever way to turn over his property and still keep her and Seth out it. When the time came, she knew what had to be done and would see to it.
“I’ve got nothing so far, but like I said, Baker had plenty of trips to this one strange site on the Internet, an IP address through something called ‘Globe Harvest.’ The site’s under construction. But I took a look at the source code behind the site and found an embedded login if you hit the control shift key and type in the letter O. Here, let me show you.”
Seth pulled up a Web site with the name Globe Harvest emblazoned across the screen. A note indicated the site was under construction. But after he hit a few keystrokes, a box popped up, requesting the user to log on.
“I don’t have the login yet, but I’m working on it.”
“For a site under construction, that seems weird.” She narrowed her eyes.
“That’s what I thought. Usually a site like this is a blind to allow the Web designer to work behind it until the site is officially published and operational.”
“If you get into this thing, can you get a physical location for these people?”
Seth shrugged, disappointment in his eyes. “Like I said, simple it ain’t. An IP address might be a stand-alone proxy or it could be shared by multiple client devices, part of a common hosting Web server.”
The kid was speaking in tongues again, and she knew her face reflected her confusion. He tried another explanation.
“Okay, okay. Think of this like one big telephone system. The use of a main number can act as the proxy, with extensions behind it that are shared. You get it?”
“That kind of makes sense…in a geek alternative universe.” She raised an eyebrow, clearly content in her ignorant bliss.
