by Karen Rose
Wes. My God. Then his jaw tightened, resolve giving him strength. Whoever did this to you needs to pay.
But who could make that happen? The police was the obvious first answer, but Grant didn’t trust the Cincinnati cops. Not after Detective Stuart had swept Laurel’s disappearance under the rug.
He considered his options. The other group that exposed wrongdoing was journalists. And thanks to his aborted visit to the riverboat last night, he happened to know of a few journalists.
Making a quick decision, he opened a new browser window and searched for Stone O’Bannion and the Cincinnati Ledger. If O’Bannion had been targeted by King, it was possible that the reporter had gotten in the killer’s way. If that was the case, he might prove to be an ally.
The man had a number of bylines in the local paper. Many of them were exposés of criminals, mostly pedophiles or those guilty of domestic violence.
Stone O’Bannion seemed to be a man dedicated to finding justice.
Grant then searched the other man mentioned in the article about Stone’s recent shooting. Elvis Kennedy. Grant was unsurprised to see a photo of the soft-spoken bald man from the casino staring back at him from his laptop screen. Known as Diesel, according to one article, he was listed as the Ledger’s IT person. But he was also a decorated veteran of the Gulf War. Earned a fucking Purple Heart. And he coached Pee Wee soccer and baseball, and had been given civic awards for building low-income housing.
Both men seemed like upstanding citizens. Both had faced pressure from the police for their journalism, but hadn’t given up their sources. Stone had even spent time in jail for refusing to name the source on an exposé he’d done of a high-profile corporate president who’d been accused of domestic violence.
Grant needed to meet these men again. Needed to talk to them. Needed to be sure he was choosing the right people to handle the information he’d found in Wesley’s globe.
I’m going to pay a visit to Mr O’Bannion and Mr Kennedy. He wasn’t sure where to find Kennedy, but he knew exactly where Mr O’Bannion was – Mercy West, recovering from being shot last night.
Grant flipped the book to the first page and began taking photos. If he was comfortable with Stone and Diesel, he’d hand over the documentation.
He just needed to figure out how to get close enough to Stone O’Bannion to have a private conversation. His gaze drifted to his brother’s secret closet. And Grant thought he just might have an idea.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, 18 March, 3.45 P.M.
Diesel glanced out of the corner of his eye when the sofa cushion next to him depressed – too gently, actually. Michael could use a good fifteen or twenty pounds before he was at a healthy weight.
He’d felt the boy’s eyes on him for the last few minutes, but had waited for Michael to come to him. The kid had had a shock this morning and had tried valiantly to hide it, eating his cheese sandwich like he hadn’t just been told his mother had been murdered.
He hadn’t been successful, of course. Diesel was an expert on valiantly hiding his hurts and he’d seen right through the boy’s attempted nonchalance.
Of course Marcus saw right through mine, too. So maybe Diesel wasn’t as good at hiding as he’d thought.
He finally looked up and gave Michael a smile. ‘Hey.’
Michael was frowning at Diesel’s hands. ‘Are you . . . knitting?’
Diesel looked at the knitting needles he held. He put his project in his lap, glanced at his laptop to confirm that Ritz was still cracking passwords, then gave Michael his full attention.
‘Yes. You wanna learn?’
Michael blinked at him. ‘But . . . girls knit.’
Diesel gave himself an exaggerated once over. ‘I’m knitting,’ he signed, ‘so that’s obviously not true. It wouldn’t be true anyway. Some of the most famous designers are men. And some of the most dangerous women I know are knitters. You met Kate last night, right?’
‘Yeah,’ Michael answered cautiously. ‘Married to Decker, owns Cap, the therapy dog. Captain America decals on her nails.’
Diesel grinned. ‘That’s her. She taught me how to knit. It’s a stress reliever for me. Plus, it helps me focus when my brain’s going all Sonic the Hedgehog.’
Michael’s lips twitched at the reference. ‘Kate said the same thing when she was knitting last night. Said she was making a sweater for Cap. He’s getting old and his bones get cold. What are you making?’
‘Socks.’ He really had made far too many pairs of mittens while pining for Dani, and figured it was time for a change. ‘Yarn’s soft.’ He held the ball of yarn out to Michael, who tentatively touched it with one finger, then smiled.
‘It is.’ He hesitated, studying the partially knitted sock. ‘That’s not going to fit you. It’s too small.’
Diesel extended his leg, turning his size fifteen boot one way then the other. ‘Nope. Which is fine, because they’re not for me.’
Michael hesitated again. ‘It looks too big for Dr Dani, too.’
‘Because they’re not for her, either.’ He’d intended them to be for Dani, but once he’d put a room’s distance between her and her intoxicating scent, he’d been able to think more clearly. He’d made her a ton of scarves, shawls and mittens. He had enough holiday and ‘just because’ gifts for her to last for a long time. She didn’t need any more. But Michael did. And once he’d felt the boy watching him so timidly, he’d known he’d made the right call. ‘Hold up your leg.’
Michael complied, something like hope creeping into his eyes.
Diesel dug in his bag and found his knitting kit, pulling out a measuring tape. ‘Measure your leg, about two inches below your knee.’
Drawing a visible breath, Michael again complied and told him the measurement.
Diesel eyed the sock-in-progress. ‘Perfect.’ He rolled up the measuring tape and stowed his kit. ‘You wear a size eight shoe?’
‘Eight and a half.’
‘I guessed pretty close.’
Michael swallowed hard. ‘They’re for me?’
Diesel met the boy’s eyes and nodded. ‘They’re for you.’
Tears filled Michael’s eyes and he lurched to his feet, abruptly interested in the vase of flowers on the coffee table. He dashed at the tears, took a few seconds to regroup, then turned to face Diesel. ‘Nobody’s ever made me anything before.’
Diesel’s heart cracked. ‘I’d say you’re due, wouldn’t you?’
Michael looked at the floor, then back at Diesel, the raw hope in his eyes painful to witness. ‘Did she mean it?’
Diesel didn’t have to ask what the boy meant. ‘Yes. She meant it. She’s already called Children’s Protective Services and started the process.’
Michael seemed to wilt, one hand rising to cover his mouth, the other reaching out to steady himself as he lowered to sit on the coffee table. As soon as his butt hit the glass, he lurched back to his feet. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sit there.’
‘I think it’s strong enough to hold you,’ Diesel said. He patted the sofa. ‘But cushion is more comfortable than glass.’
Michael sank onto the sofa, dropping his face into his hands.
Diesel gave him space, resuming his knitting. After a few minutes, Michael lifted his head, cast his gaze about frantically for something to look at besides Diesel, and settled on his laptop screen.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh.’ It was Diesel’s turn to hesitate. He wasn’t ashamed of his hacking, but he was loath to drag Michael into his business. The kid was pretty good at keeping secrets – he’d kept the one about Scott King killing his stepfather for more than a week, after all – but that didn’t mean Diesel wanted to burden him with having to keep a secret of this weight. What Ritz was doing was . . . illegal. And Diesel had designed the program himself, so he couldn’t blame anyone else.
<
br /> Michael’s lips twitched. ‘I know what you do. Greg told me last night.’
Diesel put the sock down, brows furrowed in an involuntary frown. ‘He did?’
Michael’s smile broadened. ‘He didn’t mean to. I guessed and he didn’t tell me I was wrong. He tried to tell me I was wrong, actually, but he’s a really bad liar.’
Diesel laughed. ‘Good to know. How did you guess?’
‘We were talking about video games. He was telling me that he was learning game design, that he wanted to go to school for it. He showed me the game he was working on. Just simple, you know. But cool. He said that Meredith’s grandfather was helping him. They Skype.’
Diesel smiled fondly at the thought of the old man. ‘Clarke Fallon is a legend in game design.’ He’d also become the kind of grandfather that Diesel had never had. He hadn’t realized that Clarke was helping Greg, but it didn’t surprise him.
Michael’s eyes grew round with excitement. ‘I know! I looked him up and couldn’t believe Greg knew him. I’ve played some of the games Mr Fallon designed. Then Greg said that you were also friends with Mr Fallon, that you helped him beta-test games.’ He tilted his head, his eyes going cagey. ‘Greg said that you were good with all kinds of computer stuff, and then he kind of . . .’ He exaggerated snapping his mouth shut. ‘I watched you on your computer on Saturday, when I was reading and Dr Dani was cooking. You weren’t playing games then. And you said you investigated for your lawyer friend, Mr Clausing.’ He shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘I asked Greg if you were a hacker.’
‘That’s kind of a leap,’ Diesel said dryly.
‘Well, Greg already told me that he’d done some hacking. I asked how he learned and he said he had a mentor.’
‘I think Greg and I need to have a talk about discretion.’
Michael laughed quietly. ‘Don’t tell him I told. I like him. He’s a nice guy.’
‘He is nice. Has a really big mouth, unfortunately.’
Michael shrugged again. ‘I’m not stupid. I would have figured it out.’ He pointed to the laptop screen. ‘You’re hash cracking.’
Diesel’s mouth fell open. He tried to ask a question, but nothing came out. He was indeed cracking the hashed values – the combinations of letters and numbers into which the passwords had been encrypted. Michael looked delighted. ‘I’m right! Aren’t I?’
‘You’re dangerous,’ Diesel managed, but he was impressed. ‘How do you know about hash cracking?’
‘I read. A lot. Not always books. I sometimes go to the library on campus at UC. You can always tell the programmers. I . . . shoulder-surf.’
‘You really are dangerous,’ Diesel muttered, then remembered to sign when Michael frowned his confusion. ‘Sorry.’
Michael regarded him very seriously. ‘You’re a white hat.’
A good guy who didn’t use his hacking for personal profit. ‘You sound sure.’
‘I am sure. You said you were going to keep us safe. Find the bald man who killed Brewer. Is that what you’re doing? What you were doing last night when you left Dani’s house?’
Super, super-dangerous kid, Diesel marveled. So damn smart. ‘Yeah. So . . . what are you going to do with this information?’
Michael blinked. ‘I’m not going to tell. I keep secrets better than Greg does.’
Diesel laughed. ‘I should hope so.’
Michael smiled a little, then grew serious again. ‘I’m going to say thank you for keeping me safe. For keeping Joshua safe. Then later I’m going to ask you to teach me how to do that.’ He pointed to the screen, then stilled. ‘It found something.’
Diesel’s attention veered from Michael’s face to his laptop screen. He no longer had his phone, which would have alarmed to let him know Ritz had finished. He’d had to give his phone to Adam when they’d been brought to the safe house, just in case it was being used to track them, although there was no way anyone could break into his phone to track them. Nevertheless, he’d wiped it first, resetting it to factory settings. He had the backup stored in safe places, so he’d be able to restore it later.
Michael was correct. Ritz had finished, finding Scott King’s password to the super-secret database to which only he and casino owner Richard Fischer had access. KingOfTheWorld666.
Well, at least King was consistent. His email password was GoodToBeKing666. The guy liked 666, for sure. Diesel wondered what his real name was. It wasn’t King. The guy had too much fun with the name. Plus, there was the real Scott King. The nursing home guard who’d disappeared from Indianapolis a year ago.
Stone had been planning to drive to Indy today to check the guy out. In all the excitement last night, Diesel had forgotten.
Michael had been staring at the screen, but now turned to Diesel. ‘It’s Scott King’s password, isn’t it?’
Diesel wasn’t going to insult the boy’s intelligence. ‘Yes. But I’m going to ask that you go play a video game. I . . . I don’t know what I’m going to find,’ he said when Michael’s eyes flashed in anger, the boy’s hands rising, poised to sign angrily.
‘It’s going to be no good,’ Michael snapped, twin flags of color staining his pale cheeks. ‘I’m not stupid. Brewer knocked Joshua out. With a drug.’ He mimed a syringe in his arm. ‘He was taking him out of the house.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I know what he did to me. I know what he was planning to do to Joshua.’
Diesel opened his mouth, lifted his hands. Then lowered his hands, closing his mouth, because he didn’t know how to respond. ‘You’re right,’ he finally signed. ‘It’s going to be no good. And I know what you’ve been through. I know.’ He let the kid see his own hurt. His own torment. And he knew the moment that Michael understood, because he reared back in stunned disbelief.
‘No.’ Michael’s eyes filled with tears once again. ‘You?’
Diesel nodded. ‘Me. So I know what you see in your mind, and I don’t want you to have to see it on my computer screen. I care about you too much already. I don’t want more pictures in your head.’
Michael blinked, sending the tears down his cheeks. ‘But . . . you put them in yours,’ he signed, his movements small.
‘And when you’re older, you may choose to do the same. For now, do you trust me?’ Diesel held his breath, waiting for Michael’s answer.
‘Yes.’ The sign was immediate and firm. Adamant. Certain.
The crack in Diesel’s heart widened painfully. ‘Then let me do this. For you and for Joshua. And for the other kids who don’t get a choice. Who can’t ignore the pictures in their minds. Please. Go play a game. For me.’
Michael swallowed hard. ‘Okay.’ He stood, unsteady on his feet. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Diesel watched as the boy slowly walked to the room he’d been assigned and shut the door. Then he picked up his laptop from the coffee table and headed for the office with its lockable door. It was time somebody besides Scott King and Richard Fischer saw what was in their super-secret database.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, 18 March, 4.05 P.M.
Goddammit. Cade peeled the bandages from his leg with a grimace. He’d hoped a few hours’ sleep would help his leg heal, but the wounds looked worse.
Neither was a big bullet hole. Both through-and-through. Little more than grazes. He’d had worse. Hell, his own father had done a lot worse with a sharpened belt buckle. In those days his mother had made him a poultice, crushing herbs with her mortar and pestle and boiling them, mixing them with flour and covering them with cheesecloth.
He didn’t have any of those things here in the old pedo’s house. All he had was a bottle of antibiotics that turned out to be expired and a tube of over-the-counter antibiotic cream he’d bought when he’d ventured into a drugstore after ditching Evelyn’s mobile grooming salon and stealing another minivan.
Into which he’d stowed Evelyn and Junior a
nd brought them here. He hadn’t let them go. He’d never intended to let them go.
But he hadn’t eliminated Michael Rowland as he’d intended. Instead, he’d created an even bigger mess. He was going to need to make a break for the border. A hostage might be the difference between safe passage and prison.
Or another firefight, because he wasn’t being taken away without one. If they were hauling his ass to prison, he’d take out as many of them as he could.
He briefly wondered if Evelyn knew how to make a poultice, then rejected the idea. She’d made her opinions very clear when he’d dumped her and Junior in the basement cell with Andrew McNab, the still-unconscious interpreter. She wished Cade would die. I’ll take my chances with WebMD.
He powered up his tablet, needing to know if he should cover the wounds or leave them open to the air to dry out, because they were red and oozing. And they fucking hurt.
Goddamn Feds. Cade wished he’d killed them when he had the ch—
He froze. Motherfucking bitch. His browser had opened to the last page he’d been watching – the local news. Which now featured Millicent, the nursing home receptionist who’d tried to lure him with the offer of free hockey tickets.
When was that? Saturday?
He clicked on the video, scowling at the woman, who was reveling in her fifteen minutes of fame. Less, actually. It was only a ninety-second clip.
‘He seemed so nice.’ Millicent shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. She was wearing a dress that was cut low in the front and high at the thigh. Her crossed arms plumped up an already outstanding cleavage, and the cameraman could not get enough. The lens nearly took her head off, trying to zoom in on her boobs.
Bitch.
‘His name isn’t Scott King, though,’ she went on, and Cade’s blood ran cold. ‘He’s Cade Kaiser. His father is a retired lawyer, a patient at the nursing home where I work.’
‘Where you used to work, bitch,’ Cade corrected with a snarl. The woman had broken so many HIPAA laws, revealing information about patients.
Focus, he snapped at himself. It didn’t matter what laws the receptionist had broken. She’d outed him. Revealed his real name to the entire Internet.
