by John Lutz
“I’m sure a lot’s been deleted,” Pearl said, feeling better about Michelle now. Quinn said she could be trusted all the way, his good true friend as well as his sister.
“Not much actually gets deleted,” Michelle said, “unless whoever’s doing it really knows how. Or whoever’s trying to recover it doesn’t know. Prisons are full of people who mistakenly thought they deleted incriminating evidence on computers.”
“I remember from seeing on my own computer how it keeps a kind of log-times and sites visited on the Internet. A chronological record of where I’ve been. If you were to arrange them chronologically…” Pearl was increasingly aware that she didn’t know what she was talking about. Not enough, anyway. But then, wasn’t that why she was here?
Michelle was staring at her, waiting.
Pearl pressed on. “If you could somehow recover those times, dates, and places on the Internet, the child porn sites, and compare them with when your brother was on duty, we might be able to prove he was somewhere else when at least some of those sites were visited.” Pearl gave her a level look, trying to appear intelligent. This Michelle was intimidating. “Is any of this even remotely possible? Might that information still be accessible?”
“It probably is.”
The woman’s face didn’t give away much, Pearl thought. Mount Rushmore with makeup. “So what would you have to do to get to it?”
“Risk my career.”
“Like I’m risking mine,” Pearl said. “And Quinn’s not even my brother.”
Michelle smiled. And in that instant Pearl knew her romantic relationship with Quinn was no secret. Maybe Michelle had talked to Quinn. Or Sergeant Rudd. Or maybe Michelle somehow had read her, simply figured it out. Maybe it had been on the damned radio.
“Good point,” Michelle said. She examined the disk drive more closely. “It’s an internal drive, so it doesn’t simply slide in a computer bay ready to go. Somebody must have used a screwdriver to remove it.”
“You’re the expert,” Pearl said.
“I can reinstall it in another computer and examine it. There are ways, software programs, that can retrieve almost anything supposedly deleted. And most people-probably the ones we’re dealing with-think once they’ve pressed the delete key, they’ve actually irretrievably deleted whatever it is they want to get rid of.”
“You have this software?”
“If I need it, I can obtain it. But I might be able to get to what we need using another computer’s system programs. It might take some time.”
“When can you start?”
Michelle removed her blazer and carefully folded it inside out and draped it over the back of a chair. “Now. This morning. It promises to be a quiet day in the markets. Money’s on the sidelines waiting to see what the Fed’s going to do.”
“Yeah,” Pearl said, “the feds.”
Michelle grinned. “I’ll make a few phone calls, then set to work on this. Don’t expect anything right away-like today. Where can I get in touch with you?”
Pearl leaned over the wide, polished desk and wrote her name and cell phone number on a tablet. “Here, or you can try Quinn’s number.”
“Uh-huh.” But while her tone was dubious, Michelle appeared secretly pleased. Pearl thought it was nice to be approved of.
“You have my word the source of any information you come up with will remain confidential if at all possible. But the truth is, that’s all I can promise.”
“I understand. Your word’s good enough.”
“Thanks,” Pearl said. “I mean, really thanks.”
She thought Michelle was going to say she was welcome, but instead she said simply, “He’s my brother.”
“One other thing,” Pearl said. “Unless you come up with something we can use, there’s no need to tell Quinn about any of this.”
“Unless for some reason he asks. I’m not going to lie to him. He’s had enough of that.”
“So he has,” Pearl said. “I’ll quit using up your morning and find my own way out.”
Michelle didn’t waste time on amenities. She was already sitting down at her desk as Pearl was leaving.
Back down on the sun-warmed sidewalk, Pearl thought about what she’d done: stolen police property from the evidence room and involved Quinn’s sister. And undoubtedly Quinn himself, if the theft came to light and there was nothing exculpatory on the hard drive.
Everyone involved might take a big hit, even Fedderman. None of them would be trusted again. The law had been broken. Loss of careers would be the least of their problems.
Computers, Pearl decided, were dangerous instruments.
Lars Svenson writhed around in his bed for several hours, but sleep never came. He considered using more of the stash he’d stolen from his latest conquest, but that was what had probably put him on edge in the first place.
He sat straight up in bed, sweating and trembling. This was pure shit. It felt like there were bugs crawling around just beneath his skin.
He was never going to get to sleep, and he’d be like he was dead when he started work this afternoon.
If he was going into work. The way the day was shaping up, he might call in sick. Or take a vacation day.
Right now he was going to climb out of bed and get dressed. Get out of the apartment and take a walk. Maybe have a drink or two somewhere and try to numb himself, relieve the pressure that was building and building in him.
Walk some more. Maybe for hours.
Sometimes, if he walked far enough, walking helped.
Sometimes it didn’t.
38
Lisa Ide realized she’d forgotten her glasses. She’d need them to read the tiny ornate print of the menu at Petit Poisson, where she was due in half an hour to meet two old friends from college. Over lunch and pastries they would have a grand time talking about long-ago allies and enemies. Maybe there’d be photographs to examine, old and recent. Lisa was looking forward to this lunch; it held the promise of being a real bitchfest.
She stopped walking and moved back against a building to avoid the flow of pedestrians. She was less than halfway to her subway stop. There was still time for her to return to the apartment, get her glasses, then take a cab to the restaurant.
Her mind made up, she began striding hurriedly back the way she’d come, breaking into a graceful half walk and half run to make the blinking walk signal at the intersection.
In the hall outside her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys and dropped them. Reminding herself she had plenty of time, she bent over and picked them up, then keyed the lock and opened the door. Within seconds she should be leaving with glasses in hand.
Where are they?
She’d read herself to sleep last night, a Michael Connelly thriller, and probably placed the glasses on top of the book on the nightstand before switching off the light on her side of the bed and dozing off.
But she’d taken only a few steps toward the bedroom when she recalled wearing the glasses in the kitchen this morning to read the calorie count on the cereal box. And later when she’d looked up a phone number in her address book.
She went to the phone on its table near the door.
No glasses.
The kitchen, then. I probably carried them back into the kitchen an hour ago when I got bottled water from the refrigerator. Of course! I must have set the glasses down when I used both hands to loosen the cap on the plastic bottle.
As she was moving toward the kitchen, she heard a slight sound from the bedroom, perhaps something falling.
She stopped. Leon must have taken ill and come home.
No, that wasn’t like Leon.
But if it’s anyone, it must be Leon.
Maybe he’d returned from the shop for something he forgot. She was here because she was absentminded, so why not Leon?
“Leon?”
She waited for an answer in the heavy silence of the still apartment. There was none. She called louder: “Leon!”
Okay, he must
not be home. The sound from the bedroom had simply been something falling over-a picture frame, maybe-or had been from the apartment upstairs. Or perhaps the faint noise had been only in her imagination. Lots of possibilities. She didn’t have time to worry about them now.
Lisa continued on her way to the kitchen. As she walked through the door, she immediately saw her glasses lying next to a folded dish towel on the sink counter.
Great! Nothing to do now but snatch up the glasses and be on my way again.
As her fingers closed on the thin steel frames, she glanced at the digital clock on the stove. Still plenty of time.
She was leaving the kitchen when she noticed the bouquet of yellow roses in the center of the table.
She stopped cold, then went over to look at them. There were half a dozen of the freshly bloomed, cut yellow roses in a plain glass vase with water in it, no card. Quite beautiful. She couldn’t resist leaning over the table and sniffing the nearest blossom, enjoying its fragrance.
Leon again? Another of his mystery gifts? Like the strange earrings I discovered in my jewelry box, the ones he’s pretending I had for years and forgot about?
If so, she wasn’t supposed to find the roses yet; they were a surprise for this evening. Did he think it was their anniversary or her birthday? Either was possible. He’d gotten the dates of important occasions wrong before. Lisa remembered when the shop had been forty-eight hours early for Valentine’s Day, which the sale sign Leon had placed in the window proclaimed as TOMORROW. Lisa had to smile.
She thought about calling her husband’s name again, or double-checking to make sure he wasn’t in the bedroom.
But if he was in the bedroom, it was because she’d surprised him by coming back to the apartment unexpectedly, and he didn’t want her to know he was home. He was hiding, hoping she wouldn’t discover him or the roses.
Lisa stood wondering what to do, then decided she should do nothing.
Let Leon have his fun. Maybe he knows what he’s doing. He might be leading up to something. Like a European vacation or a Caribbean cruise.
Lisa left the apartment, making sure the door was dead-bolted behind her. This evening she’d pretend the roses were a big surprise. Whatever was going on was weird, but there was nothing to do but roll with it.
Only when she was back on the crowded sidewalk, waiting for the traffic signal to change so she could cross a busy intersection, did she let the thought occur to her fully: What if somebody else put the roses in the kitchen and went into the bedroom when I returned home unexpectedly?
Somebody not Leon!
“Move it or lose it, lady!”
The light had changed to a walk signal. A florid-faced little man was trying to get around her, bumping her hip with his attache case. Threads of sparse black hair were plastered across his otherwise bald scalp, and he was wearing a natty gray suit and what looked like a blue ascot.
“Move it or-”
“I never heard that one before,” Lisa said. “Is it copyrighted?”
The fussy little guy did what she should have done-ignored the remark.
She let him pass and stride out ahead of her as they crossed the street.
Beyond him Lisa could see Petit Poisson’s sign.
And was that woman in the blue dress Abby? The pudgy one hurrying into the restaurant?
If so, she’s put on weight. Lots of weight.
Lisa forgot all about the yellow roses as she quickened her pace. She didn’t want to be the last to arrive at the restaurant.
A person could get talked about.
39
Hiram, Missouri, 1989.
Luther watched them sleep. Milford had drunk more than his share of scotch after dinner and seemed almost unconscious, too deep in his slumber even to snore. His breathing was as persistent and rhythmic as the sea. Cara slept more lightly beside him.
Luther, moving closer, could see the delicate flesh of her closed eyelids responding as her pupils shifted beneath them.
She’s dreaming. Maybe about me.
He might wake her and they could go downstairs, or up to his attic nest. Or-and this they had never dared-they could have sex right there in bed beside Milford, to the regular beat of Milford’s own breathing and ignorance. Luther considered it; Milford hadn’t budged since he’d entered the bedroom, and probably since long before that. His hair wasn’t even mussed. Luther could wake Cara with a kiss, place a palm over her mouth to quiet her if necessary, and then…
Don’t be an idiot!
Realizing he was breathing hard enough to hear, Luther backed away from the bed. As if sensing his presence, Cara raised a hand lightly to her forehead, then lowered it. Her eyes remained closed.
Let the Sands sleep for now. Luther would prowl his secret domain.
He left the bedroom and closed, but didn’t latch, its door behind him. After only a few steps he felt safe. Sound wouldn’t carry through the thick walls. Not bothering to be quiet, he descended the creaking stairs to the first floor.
This was his time, his own dim world where he could indulge himself with whatever he needed at the moment-food, drink, shelter, woman…
At the moment he was hungry. Maybe because of the benzene he’d been inhaling in the attic; it did that sometimes, made him want sex or food later. It could also affect his judgment, something he realized only in retrospect.
Luther made his way into the kitchen, which was illuminated by the night-light on the stove and moonlight filtering through the curtained window. He remembered the scent of dinner a few hours before when he was lying on his cot reading in the attic, almost the taste itself, rising all the way through the vents and cracks and air spaces of the old house to its highest regions. The Sands were having turkey, one of Milford’s favorites that Cara prepared regularly. Thanksgiving at least once a week. There were always leftovers, and she would make sure there was plenty of white meat for Luther.
He smelled something else when he entered the kitchen. Roses. There was a clear glass vase in the center of the table containing half a dozen yellow roses Cara had brought in from the garden. She loved roses, especially the yellow ones. The scent of roses reminded Luther of Cara, and he knew it always would.
He opened the refrigerator and there was a large remaining portion of the bird on a platter and covered with aluminum foil. He removed the platter and placed it on the Formica table.
When he pulled back the foil, he was pleased to find more than half of a good-size turkey, baked to a perfect golden brown. Even one of the drumsticks remained, but Luther knew he couldn’t chance eating it. Milford liked drumsticks and would wonder. Luther would satisfy himself with a few thick slices of white meat for a sandwich, washed down with milk from the carton. Afterward, he’d rinse off the knife he’d used to carve the meat and replace it in its drawer. Then he’d return the turkey, milk, and condiments to the refrigerator, making sure there were no telltale crumbs, and creep back to his cot in his secret space above.
He found half a loaf of bread in the metal box with the yellow rose decal on it, and laid it next to the turkey and milk on the table. Back to the refrigerator for the milk carton, a jar of mustard, and another of pickles. On impulse he took a jar of olives, too, to eat on the side.
Before sitting down to his feast he glanced at the stove clock. It was three A.M. The time of deepest sleep. Or so he’d read in a recent copy of Psychology Today.
Luther had finished all but a few bites of his sandwich and was considering another when he heard something off to the side and behind him. He knew what it was immediately-someone’s sharp intake of breath.
He stopped chewing and turned his head slowly, not really wanting to look, to find out who’d made the sound, praying it was Cara so his heart could start to beat again.
Cara! Please, Cara!
His prayer was only half answered.
Milford stood in the doorway, Cara behind him and peering around his shoulder. Milford appeared stunned. Cara looked horrified. Time itsel
f paused. Luther knew they were all like figures in a painting, no one moving.
He wished it could stay a painting forever.
Milford moved first, lurching toward Luther, only to stop short, as if he hadn’t quite gotten over his surprise enough to change direction and go around the table. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
His hesitancy gave Luther courage. “I live here.”
Milford appeared more puzzled than enraged. “You what?”
Luther looked past him at Cara, who still hadn’t moved or changed expression. She obviously wanted nothing so much as to whirl and run, only there was no place to go.
“I live here,” Luther repeated, wondering himself where he was finding the courage. Love. It must be love for Cara.
Milford put his fists on his hips. He was wearing only his Jockey shorts and his musculature was evident. He was thin, even skinny, except for a small pad of flesh that hung over his elastic waistband, but there was a reedy look of strength about him. “Well, now, you little jack-off, if you live here, how come I haven’t noticed you around?”
“Maybe you haven’t looked close enough.”
“And maybe you better explain what’s going on here with the one chance I’m gonna give you before tearing you apart so you look something like that turkey. You can start by telling me how the hell you got in here.”
“I’ve been in here.” Luther noticed his heart rate had decreased, but he was still frightened. In control, though. Claiming what was his. Or what he wanted so badly that it should be his. “I come and go through the door, just like you do.”
“Without a key?”
“I have a key.”
Milford peered up at the ceiling, as if for some message written there, then back down at Luther. “You’re doing a piss-poor job.”
“Of what?”
“Explaining.”
Luther glanced at Cara. Her eyes were wide and disbelieving, dark and deep in their shadowed sockets. This was the time they knew would come-both of them-though they’d never spoken of it. He had to be strong.
He faced Milford. “I’m…Cara and I love each other.” In the corner of his vision he saw Cara bend forward with the force of his words, as if she’d suffered a blow to the stomach.
