Spiders in a Dark Web

by Emily Senecal

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Marianne drawled, sloshing another shot into her glass and draining it.

  “I wonder whose idea it was,” I thought aloud. “The family business.”

  “They’ve never shared the story, funny—fun’ly enough.”

  “It’s kind of—fascinating, in a sick way,” I said dreamily. The whiskey had made everything soft and blurred.

  “Mm,” she said, staring up at the ceiling. After a few minutes, her breathing became more regular. She was asleep.

  I managed to take a shower without waking her, climbing into the bed as Peter took his turn showering. I was hazily aware of him turning off lights, checking the door, climbing in beside me. And then nothing more.

  Chapter 19

  A loud banging on the door brought us wide awake at six: two sturdy SFPD officers had come to escort us to give our statements at one of the nearby stations. We hurried into clothes while Marianne, looking rumpled and definitely the worse for drink, splashed vigorously in the sink for a few minutes. Very soon after their arrival, the three of us, along with our plainclothes guard from the hall—who, I realized, was actually not the same man as the previous night—were following the officers down the hall to a service elevator, encountering only one surprised and curious pair of early risers leaving their room.

  Downstairs, we were loaded into the back of a police SUV, the suited man melting away somewhere. The car windows were tinted a dark shade, so as we drove no one could see us inside, and traffic was light at just after six on a Sunday morning. It was a short trip down Market, turning south of the freeway. None of us spoke.

  They pulled into a gated garage, parked and escorted us through a secure door through a network of hallways, asking that we check in our phones, complete with paperwork, before depositing each of us in a different room. I was first to be shown in, exchanging one last glance with Peter, seeing a glimpse of Marianne’s pale face, before I was through the doorway and the door was shut behind me. I sat down in the nearest chair to wait.

  It wasn’t an interrogation room like you see on TV, no double-sided mirror or table with handcuffs. A table and three chairs stood on one side of the small space, while the other side held a scruffy padded bench without a back. The chairs were steel, and not uncomfortable.

  After only about ten minutes, the woman in charge from the previous night came in, along with another woman. They introduced themselves as Supervisory Investigative Analyst Pam Nelson from Interpol Washington and Assistant Special Agent in Charge Gabriela Ramirez from the FBI San Francisco Division. Local police still had no place at the table, I noticed.

  After they offered, and I accepted, a cup of coffee, which some lackey or other brought in, weak and stale but at least hot, we got down to it. They asked me to explain who I was, how I was involved and the events leading up to and of the previous night. Both jotted a few things down as I spoke, but if I was being recorded they didn’t say so.

  Peter, Marianne and I somewhat foolishly hadn’t compared notes or prepared our stories, so I didn’t know what the others were going to say. Figuring the truth—or most of the truth—was best, I told my story. I left out the details—how we tracked down Marianne in New York, for instance, and what we did there—and didn’t mention Brendan’s name, but otherwise I told them what I knew. I said that Marianne and I were cousins (we were by marriage if not blood) and the woman I knew as Rosemary DiGregorio was my mother’s stepsister.

  I described how Marianne and I grew up together, and lost touch as we got older, and how I’d never been in contact with my uncle and aunt. And then I said Marianne had told me to hide, that I’d gone to Half Moon Bay, staying at a family property there, until Peter and I had decided to go to New York and confront her. When we’d found her, she’d told us about her parents’ crimes—not specific details, but generally how they defrauded people by pretending to set up humanitarian causes, and said she had evidence against them.

  We went to Tucson, where Peter used to live and we figured we’d be safe, and downloaded the information from the darknet with Marianne’s instructions. And then we’d sent it to the authorities, along with where we’d be, in the hopes that the DiGregorios would track us down and, doing so, give the authorities a chance to catch them. It had worked better than we expected—we’d never done anything like it before—and they knew the result.

  After hearing me out to this point, the investigators asked me several questions. Who else knew about this? I said no one, having already decided not to mention Brendan. What exactly had Marianne told us?

  That was more difficult, but I outlined it as best I could, explaining that we hadn’t had much time to talk. It came down to the fact that they were using threats to me as leverage against her, and she hoped to get leverage against them, in order to protect both of us. They made no comment, but noted this and moved on. When they asked me to describe the events of the previous night, I quickly ran through everything that had happened from the time that we arrived in the city to the moment armed officers entered the room. It was a surprisingly short interlude in the telling, though it had seemed to go on for endless, tortured hours while we were facing the DiGregorios at gunpoint.

  Finally, in response to their questions, I said I had no idea where my aunt might go. We had never been in touch directly, and both my parents were gone. They cleared up a few other minor questions about the evidence and my role in obtaining and sending that; it seemed like they were fishing a little to see if I really knew what I was talking about. I threw out Tor browsers and a few basic programming terms, and they seemed satisfied. I said I’d used a borrowed computer, and they didn’t ask whose it was.

  Truth be told, I don’t know that they really cared. This was all a formality—mine would be useful evidence to charge Leonard with attempted murder, but it was such small potatoes compared to everything else they wanted to get him on, that it seemed like kind of an aside. I did manage to ask them if Marianne was now in custody, but Special Agent Ramirez said they were “unable to discuss her position at this time,” which seemed to definitively close that subject. They asked me for my contact information, and I gave it to them, agreeing not to leave the country. I said I’d be staying in Half Moon Bay for the foreseeable future, and then they said goodbye and walked out. I wasn’t asked to sign a statement and didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one, or if I’d be asked anything else.

  After a tedious twenty minutes while I wished I could get another cup of terrible coffee and felt increasingly stifled and uneasy, the door opened and a new officer appeared. She handed back my phone, asked me to sign a receipt for it before ushering me out of the room. We walked down more hallways and through another security door, until we reached a sort of kitchen-lounge. The first thing I noticed was Peter, sitting at a table reading a magazine, and felt a powerful rush of relief and gladness.

  “Hi,” I said sedately, resisting the urge to throw my arms around him.

  He smiled and stood.

  “They’re finished with both of you for today,” the officer said simply, and showed us the way out.

  We went quietly, following meekly in her wake until we were outside a side entrance to the building, and the door was firmly closed behind us. No ride was offered to take us back, adding even more to my impression of being dismissed as relatively negligible witnesses.

  “OK with walking?” Peter asked, and I nodded my assent.

  As soon as we’d started to approach nearest thoroughfare, I asked, “What about Marianne? Did they tell you anything?”

  Somehow I hadn’t wanted to bring it up while we were still within sight of the police building.

  “I don’t know,” Peter said, putting an arm around me and hurrying me along. The morning was pearly gray and cool, the fresh air bracing on my cheeks. “I didn’t feel like I could ask. I’m sorry.”

  “I asked, they said they couldn’t discuss her status,” I said. “They were polite about it, but I didn’t press the issue. I
hope she’s OK.”

  “She’s a valuable witness. That can only help.”

  It felt wrong to leave without her, but what choice did we have? Short of demanding information that they were unwilling to give us, and probably annoying them in the process, I didn’t feel there was anything more we could do.

  We paused to orient ourselves, crossing under the freeway, walking until we reached Harrison Street. Checking Peter’s phone, we found the hotel was about a mile away, and once we got to Market it was a simple matter to get there. On the way we stopped at Starbucks and ordered coffees and bagels, eating as we walked.

  The street was relatively quiet; we passed the occasional sleeping homeless person, bundled figures on the hard pavement, and scattered groups of early tourists. It was very different from the usual intense bustle and noise. Peaceful in an urban way.

  “What did they ask you?” I asked between bites, and we found that both our stories and their questions aligned fairly well. Peter hadn’t said anything about our activities in New York, either, nor had he mentioned Brendan.

  “They didn’t push very hard,” he said. “I felt like they were just going through the motions.”

  “I did, too,” I said. “Did they ask you about Hal?”

  “No. Either it didn’t come up when they checked on me, or they didn’t care. It’s not their patch, after all.”

  As we approached the Four Seasons, I said, “Peter—can we go home now?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, opening the glass door for me. Inside, I went straight to the front desk, deserted at this hour but for one sleepy young woman, and said that we needed to check out early. She agreeably looked up our room, said that we were all paid up and just to drop our key cards off when we were on our way out.

  We looked at each other in some confusion.

  “We’re—all paid up?” I asked. “You charged the card from the initial reservation?”

  “No, it looks like it was paid in cash last night,” she said, then grinned. “We get some of those—people like to throw cash around sometimes.”

  “And… the room service, too?”

  “Yes, all the charges on the room. If any other charges arise, we’ll charge the card on file, but all three nights and all room service charges were paid up front.”

  “Do you—is there any way to find out who paid it?” I asked, bewildered.

  “I don’t think so,” she said doubtfully. “Is it a problem?”

  “No,” I said slowly. “I mean, of course not. Thanks so much for your help.”

  “You’re welcome. We hope you enjoyed your stay,” she recited, though her heart wasn’t quite in it. As we turned away, she was surreptitiously yawning into her hand.

  “Marianne?” I wondered, and Peter widened his eyes and shrugged. He hit the button to call the elevator as we pondered this new development. Could she have managed it after we fell asleep? Or did she pay when she arrived? She did say she would cover the food.

  I couldn’t imagine who else would hand over a large amount of cash for our expenses. I really doubted it was any of the agencies involved, no matter how grateful Interpol might be for our role in sharing the evidence. Maybe it would always remain a mystery—one that I didn’t intend to worry about solving. Not having to pay a few thousand for our stay was just fine by me.

  We took BART south to the parking lot where we’d left my car. Just as we were stepping off the train, I wondered if it could really still be there, waiting for us. It seemed impossible that only seven days had passed. It felt like weeks—months, even. But my car was, in fact, where we left it, and it started right up. We paid the parking fee, pulled out of the lot, merged onto the nearest freeway entrance. In less than half an hour, we were already entering the outskirts of Half Moon Bay.

  “We’re home,” Peter said, sounding more resigned than happy about it.

  “Yeah,” I said, echoing his tone.

  Maybe it was the exhaustion, but I felt oddly deflated. As if everything had gone from overpowering Technicolor to a kind of drab sepia. Most of the last few weeks had been much more uncomfortable and upsetting than exciting, but all the same… The adventure was over.

  For now, anyway.

  “Do you mind if we stop by the bar first?”

  I didn’t mind. We pulled up in the nearly empty lot next to Peter’s truck. From the puddles, I guessed it must have rained recently.

  “That’s Delia’s car,” he said, indicating a mud-spattered red Subaru Outback. We trudged around to the back entrance, Peter unlocking the door. Before we saw him, we heard the sound of madly scrabbling claws on linoleum, and as the door opened a large, furry form launched itself at Peter, yawping with ecstatic joy. “Get down, you crazy—Yes, buddy, I missed you too. So did Lola. Good boy, lick her instead.”

  I got my share of the greeting. As we patted the wriggling animal, Delia appeared in her office doorway.

  “You’re finally back,” she said shortly, but there was relief in her eyes. “Did you have a nice trip?”

  Peter gave me a quick, smiling glance before saying, “It was good. How’s everything with you?”

  ■ ■ ■

  Three afternoons later, I drove up to the bar and parked, grabbing several bags out of the trunk before walking inside through the front entrance. It was just after five on Wednesday and business was still thin, just a few regulars and random drinkers. Lyle was behind the bar, accepting his burger and fries with a drawled, “Thanks, doll.” I went on into the back and found Delia and Peter sitting in his office. Delia occupied about a tenth of Osiris’s love seat, while he took up the rest of it, his heavy head on her lap.

  “Hey,” I said, returning Peter’s light kiss and handing around food. I told Delia not to get up and perched on the arm of the sofa, prompting Osiris to dig a pointed toe into my thigh. “Any news?”

  “Nothing since this morning,” Delia said, sounding worried.

  Peter and I exchanged a brief, loaded look, then began to eat. Delia picked at her fries, much to Osiris’s interest.

  “Down, Oss,” Peter ordered sternly, after the dog had managed to inhale three fries out of her hand. Reluctantly Osiris poured himself onto the floor, looking at his master with mournful brown eyes. I slid down to sit on the seat, ignoring the reproachful stare that came my way.

  “What’s the worst thing this indictment will do?” I asked. Delia had just heard from her lawyer that morning. The DEA had finally filed the indictment against Hal, and was seeking extradition from Mexico, where, according to her lawyer, he’d been holed up for a month.

  “Freeze my assets,” she said dully, her face ashen and drawn. “Probably including the bar accounts… Shut down the business.”

  “Not really,” Peter said steadily. “Everything is in my name—even the business license, remember? You and Hal are listed as investors.”

  “When—did I know that?” Delia asked, bewildered.

  “You did. I suggested it, and you both agreed. It gives you limited liability, but also means that technically Hal isn’t an owner—neither are you.”

  “Oh.” She stared blankly at him, and then her face crumpled in tears. “Could I… could I have a minute?” she sniffled from behind her hands.

  After tactfully handing her a box of Kleenex, we took the rest of our meal and Osiris and left her snuffling quietly into the arm of the couch. As we walked out, Peter grabbed a large white envelope from the desk, handing it to me once we’d found seats at the back of the bar by the pool table. Nobody was playing, so we had the corner of the room to ourselves.

  “What’s this?” I asked, wiping my hands and taking it from him.

  “No idea. It came this morning to your attention.”

  “To the bar?” He nodded. “That’s odd,” I said, looking at the return address. It meant nothing to me—an investment company in New York City. “Maybe an ad…? But how would anybody know my connection to the Hideout? My mail’s going to your home address.”
/>   “Open it and find out.”

  I ripped the thick envelope and pulled out a stack of documents clipped together, finding a letter addressed to me on top. As I skimmed it, any idea of bizarrely omniscient marketing outreach faded. An electric shiver went up my spine. I choked on the fry I’d absently stuck in my mouth.

  “What is it?” Peter asked, pushing his glass of water at me.

  I cleared my throat and read him the letter. In summary, an investment firm in New York had been trying to reach me, and somehow—they didn’t specify—had heard that I might be reachable at this address. They were the managers of an account started five years ago by my mother, with me listed as her primary legatee. The account had a considerable balance, and as they’d recently if somewhat belatedly been notified of my mother’s death, it was now mine. If I would just sign the enclosed papers in the presence of a notary public and return at my earliest convenience, they would ensure my access to the account. If I chose to make any withdrawals, I would then be able to do so.

  I flipped through the papers until I found an account statement. I gazed at the figure listed, holding it wordlessly out to Peter.

  Nine hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars and seventeen cents. Peter whistled and handed it back to me.

  “Your cousin is really something,” he said, with genuine admiration in his voice.

  Epilogue: Three Months Later

  The bouquet of flowers had been delivered to the bar the previous afternoon, a Sunday, from a nationwide floral delivery service. It was now late Monday morning, overcast but mild with a fresh breeze from the sea. I sat, legs outstretched, in a weather-beaten chair outside the camper. Nearby, Osiris was investigating an interesting smell along the fence, while Peter tightened lug nuts on one of the camper’s new tires. He’d suggested that we make it mobile again, and so long as he didn’t mind squatting in the leafy dust and futzing with jacks and tools, I was willing to buy four of the right kind of tire and give him my blessing.

  We were temporarily living in the camper now; it was too cramped to be a long-term solution, but allowed Peter to save his rent money for wherever we were going to live next. I’d heard from the lawyers that probate would be wound up soon, giving me the option of selling the property—I’d already had a casual offer from the people who owned the adjoining land—or, if permits and zoning could be worked out, building on it.