Network of Deceit

by Tom Threadgill

  She pondered whether or not to answer, decided she was awake anyway, muted the TV, and coughed to clear her throat. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Detective.”

  Sounded like a male voice, but not positive. A tad high-pitched with a bit of static interference. “Who is this?” she asked.

  “No one you know.”

  She paused the TV and sat upright. “I’m hanging up if you don’t tell me who you are.”

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  She disconnected the call, pulled her Glock from the holster attached to her mattress, and grabbed her laptop. The phone rang again and she pushed the button to block all calls from that number. Before she could type the digits into search, the cell buzzed again, this time with a different number.

  She inhaled deeply and answered. “Yes?”

  “We can do this all night if you’d like,” the voice said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Is that how the police work? Ask the same question over and over despite knowing they’re not going to get an answer?”

  She gritted her teeth. “What do you want?”

  “See? Was that difficult? What I want, Amara, is to—where are my manners? May I call you Amara?”

  “No.”

  “Rude. Whatever. What I want, Detective, is to express my sympathy. I know how difficult times like this can be.”

  She squeezed the phone. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t.” The voice chuckled. “That’s the whole idea, isn’t it?”

  “I’m getting tired of your game. Get to the point or I’m turning off the cell.”

  He sighed. “Very well. I simply wanted to say that I hope your mother is able to beat her cancer. Terrible disease, but she’s fortunate to catch it before it gets into her organs.”

  A shock bolted through her. Who was this and how did they know about Mama? She closed her mouth and breathed through her nose to slow her pulse. “How do you know my mother?”

  “I don’t. But I do know she had a PET scan today, and the results, well, when her doctor sees them tomorrow morning, I imagine he’ll be contacting her right away. The image from the radiologist had several splotchy areas.” He paused. “I really do hope her treatments work.”

  She kicked off the sheet again and pivoted so her feet were on the floor. Mama’s scan wasn’t for two more days. Or so she’d said. “Listen, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’re dead wrong. I suggest you—”

  “One thing I am not,” the voice said, “is wrong. Call your mother. Ask if she had her scan. See if her doctor phones in the morning. I promise you, Detective. I am not wrong.”

  Suspects flashed through her mind. The techs at the hospital. Whoever transferred the results to the doctor. But why? First thing was to call Mama and find out if she did have the scan done. “You never answered my question. What do you want? I mean really want.”

  “To prove that I can do what I say. That’s all.”

  “And what is it that you do?”

  The voice chuckled again. “Good night, Detective. Oh, and at the risk of spoiling things, I bet Father Brown catches the murderer.”

  16

  Amara’s fingers tingled as adrenaline flooded her system. The call disconnected and she dropped the phone. He knew what she was watching on TV. How? She snatched her gun and rolled out the opposite side of the bed, away from the open door, and went into a shooting stance. She kept her back toward the wall, edged sideways, and maintained her focus on the hallway.

  The closet was just ahead on the same wall, and she slid the door open. The ambient light from the TV confirmed no one was hiding there. Her flashlight remained atop the nightstand. Too late now. She moved around the corner, paused to steady her breathing, and reached over to turn off Father Brown. The only sound was a low hum from Larry’s room. His heater must have kicked on.

  She continued her movement toward the open door, careful to limit her exposure. The TV ruined her night vision, but the LED night-light in the bathroom provided enough coverage for her to see into the area. She leaned to her right to peer into the hall and took a small sidestep. Nothing. She repeated the process until she’d completed a counterclockwise semicircle viewing arc. The space was clear.

  She moved out of the bedroom and flattened her back against the wall, sidled toward the bathroom, cleared it, and continued down the hall. Time crawled as she crept through the rest of the apartment and verified no one was there except her and Larry. The doors remained locked and chained. From all indications, the caller had never been inside.

  She grabbed a drink from the refrigerator, retrieved her phone from the bedroom, and plopped onto the sofa in the living room. With the Glock beside her, she popped open the can, took a swig, then dialed Starsky. He answered on the third ring.

  “You up?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” His scratchy voice and sniffling said otherwise. “What’s going on?”

  “How soon can you get to my place?”

  Several moments of silence followed. “Um, is this a butt dial?”

  “What?”

  “You know, like when someone calls and is like, hey, come on over and let’s, uh, hang out for a while. Or something.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “First, you’re talking about a booty call, not a butt dial. Second, nobody says that anymore. It’s Netflix and chill now. And third, no, this absolutely is not that.”

  “Oh. Then what’s going on?”

  “I’ve got a problem,” she said. She stretched her legs and twisted her head left-right as the adrenaline wore down. “Someone called a few minutes ago. He knew things he shouldn’t have. At least I think he does. I need to call Mama to confirm.”

  His voice sharpened. “Amara, what happened?”

  “Get here quick as you can, okay? Call me when you’re approaching my door so I’ll know it’s you.”

  “Want me to send a patrol car? They can be there sooner than me.”

  “No. I’m safe, but I’m not sure what’s going on. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

  A loud clunk sounded through the phone. “Sorry,” he said. “Dropped it while I was getting dressed. Heading out the door in about thirty seconds. No jokes about how I look when I get there.”

  “No problem. I’m not in much of a joking mood.”

  “Understood. You protected?”

  She moved the Glock to her lap and rested her hand on it. “Fifteen in the magazine, one in the chamber. Anyone besides you who comes through that door is gonna have a very bad night.”

  Starsky made the twenty-minute drive to her apartment in barely over ten. Once there, he insisted they clear the rooms again before talking. Afterward, he checked all the windows and doors, then joined her in the living room.

  “Need a drink?” she asked.

  He sat on the edge of the recliner, his weapon still in hand. “No. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She stared at his face. Normally jovial, or at least relaxed, his expression was tight. Eyes narrowed and scanning the room constantly, rapid breathing, splotches of redness across his cheeks. Anger. Because she was in danger. “I got a phone call,” she said.

  They spent the next half hour discussing the call. He recorded the conversation and interrogated her several times to ensure they covered everything. Toward the end, he asked the two questions she’d fixated on. Did she have any idea who might do this, and was the information about her mother correct?

  “I’ve thought about who it might be,” she said. “It could be someone I know. I think the voice was altered so I couldn’t recognize it.”

  “Doesn’t mean you know them.”

  “No, it doesn’t. The way I see it, there are two options. This has something to do with the Zachary Coleman case, or someone involved with Cotulla is looking for payback.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “But I don’t think it’s Cotulla. Too coincidental for that to pop up at exactly the same
time the Coleman investigation is getting serious. Plus, I’m out of the loop on that whole deal and it seems odd that they’d come after me for some revenge thing. Nothing to gain by it.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “What about your mother?”

  “It’s the middle of the night. We can wait until morning.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not going to be able to sleep. How did they know what I was watching? Might be a camera, microphone, or something hidden in my bedroom. I’m guessing not, but I’d feel better if we searched.”

  He stood and stretched. “What’s your theory?”

  “Has to be the network. It’s the only way.”

  “The network? You mean the internet?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m no expert, but if he hacked into my router, he’d be able to see what I was doing. I think. Possibly even access my personal laptop and read my emails.”

  He nodded. “We’ll search your bedroom, but I’m far more interested in the why than the how. If this is somehow linked to the Coleman case, what does our anonymous caller gain by doing this?”

  She gripped her weapon and stood. “He proves he can get to me.”

  17

  Starsky and Amara spent over an hour inspecting her bedroom for any sign of hidden electronic devices without success. When they’d finished, she retrieved a roll of masking tape from the junk drawer in the kitchen and ripped off a piece to cover the camera on her laptop.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, loosed a yawn, and typed on her computer. “Changing my Wi-Fi and laptop passwords.”

  “We could have someone from the department come in and check the place again,” he said. “Better yet, the FBI owes you some favors, I’m sure. Have one of their people come scan the apartment. They can go over your network too.”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. I need more proof first. There’s a thread here, and if I pull too hard, it will break.”

  “This guy, whoever he is, threatened you and—”

  “No,” she said. “No threats. More of a show of power. I’m willing to play along for a while. See what I can learn about him. If it gets too volatile, I’ll get others involved.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. But if what I’m thinking is correct, I’m dealing with kids here.”

  “Yeah? From your investigation?”

  She nodded. “Teenagers.”

  “Teenagers who may have killed their friend.” He leaned against the wall. “Can we go to the living room? Nowhere to sit in here, and I wouldn’t mind checking out the contents of your fridge.”

  She glanced up from her laptop. He doesn’t want to sit on the bed. “Tell you what. Let’s go get some breakfast. My treat.”

  “Waffle House? I’m in.”

  “Nah. Breakfast Bodega. I know one of the managers there.”

  “Not even two a.m. yet. They open all night?”

  “Yep, starting a couple of weeks ago.” She grinned. “And Ronnie—that’s the manager—is absolutely thrilled about working third shift.”

  Starsky’s stomach rumbled and he gestured down the hall. “Lead the way. You can fill me in on your investigation on the drive over. But when breakfast is done, you know what you have to do.”

  She closed her computer and rubbed her hand over the warm metallic case. “Call Mama? No way. Not until later in the morning.”

  “You need to know.” He rubbed his eyes and scratched his forehead. “Investigations don’t have a schedule. They have an on button and an off button. That’s it.”

  “We’ll see. Breakfast first, okay?”

  He moved into the hall. “Try to keep up.”

  Starsky poured hot sauce over his three-egg Western omelet, diced it faster than a Benihana chef, and scooped a heap into his mouth. “Delicious.”

  “Good,” Amara said. She nibbled at her fruit plate, then used her fork to point at the rest of his food. “Told you the pancakes were huge.”

  “Should’ve got the big stack. And the hash browns.”

  She sipped her coffee and took another bite of cantaloupe. The Breakfast Bodega was nearly empty. Two guys sat at a table on the opposite side of the restaurant, pecking at their phones and their food. The lone waitress-slash-cook was nowhere to be seen, and Ronnie had scurried off to the office in the back to, as he’d put it, “try to figure out what sort of owner thinks it’s a good idea to stay open all night and let who knows what kind of lowlifes creep in from the dark. No offense.”

  She downed the last of her coffee. “So Zachary Coleman was into something. Whatever it was, it was online and generated serious money. I’m sure his friends are into it too.”

  Starsky dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “What’s the connection to the water park?”

  “Don’t know yet, but I’m willing to bet they find out they’ve been hacked.”

  “Question. Remember you’re talking to a non-techie here. If someone did break into the Cannonball’s network, would their security be able to tell why? What they were after?”

  She pushed her plate away. “Great question. I have no idea.” She slid out of the booth. “Need more coffee?”

  “Sure. And if you spot the cook, can you have her throw on some hash browns? Grilled on both sides with onions. Please.”

  “I’m gonna have to take out a loan to pay for your breakfast.” She wandered to the kitchen, placed the order with the barely awake cook, and grabbed the coffeepot. She refilled both cups and walked over to the other two customers and topped off theirs. They grunted their thanks without looking up, and she slid the pot back on the burner before sitting again.

  “How long you going to wait?” Starsky asked.

  She wanted to call Mama to find out if she’d had the scan yet but doing so would verify the caller’s information. Info she didn’t want confirmed. Plus, it was still the middle of the night. A call at this hour would frighten her mother half to death. Several splotchy areas. That’s what he’d said. Yes, Mama had cancer, but how bad? What did that mean? And what would she say if she called her mother? Did you already have your scan? Yes? Okay. Your doctor may be calling. If he does, let me know immediately. No way to say those things without scaring her. And even if she only asked about having the scan done, Mama would want to know how she knew that.

  “You there?” Starsky asked. “How long are you going to wait to call her?”

  “I’m not calling her.”

  He laid his fork on the plate. “Amara, you have to know.”

  “I’m calling Wylie. He’ll know.” She searched the phone’s contact list and pressed his number. After four rings, the call went to voice mail. “Wylie, this is Amara. Have to talk to you when you get a chance.”

  The phone beeped to signal an incoming call. Wylie.

  She switched over to him. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Huh?” He sounded like his mouth was filled with cotton. “It’s, uh, three in the morning. What did you think I’d be doing?”

  “Sleeping. I need to ask you something. Promise me you’ll be honest.”

  An exuberant yawn was followed by a few sniffles and a cough. “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, I won’t promise anything until I know what you want. I’m retired now. Re. Tired. Emphasis on tired.”

  “This has nothing to do with police business. At least not directly.”

  “Hmm.” He released a long sigh. A gurgle echoed and crescendoed in a loud whoosh.

  “Wylie,” she said, “please tell me I didn’t just hear a toilet flush.”

  “You wake me in the middle of the night and complain because I used the opportunity to take care of pressing matters?”

  “Fine. Listen, one question and I’ll let you go back to bed.” She flexed the fingers of her free hand. “Did Mama have her PET scan yesterday?”

  “I can’t answer that question.”

  She rested her forehead in her palm. “You
can’t answer it because you don’t know or you can’t answer it because she made you promise not to tell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wylie, this is important.”

  “So is keeping a promise.”

  “Enough said.” Mama made him promise, which meant he knew, which meant she had her scan. Otherwise there’d have been nothing for him to keep his mouth shut about. And if the caller was right about this much, they were probably correct about the results too. Her heart plummeted to her stomach. Mama was sick. Very sick.

  “Wylie,” she said, “I’m going to ask you to do something for me. Please don’t question why, okay?”

  He cleared his throat. “Amara, what’s going on? How did you know about the scan?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Listen, I’m not sure what you’ve got planned for today, but would you be able to hang out with Mama? Find some excuse to be with her?”

  His voice took on a new intensity. “Is she in danger?”

  Not the kind you think. “Nothing like that. I don’t want her to be alone. Not today. And don’t tell her we talked.”

  “Should I go now?”

  “No,” she said. “Let her sleep. Head over after breakfast.”

  “Amara, I need to know what’s going on. You can’t put all this out there and expect me to sit here and do nothing.”

  “If I’m right, she’s about to have a rough day. I can’t tell you why, but I can say there’s nothing you can do about it except be there with her.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  She tilted her head to stretch her neck muscles. “No one will be happier than me.”

  Starsky peered at her, his eyes watery and wide. He knew as well as she did.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  Mama’s cancer was bad.

  And someone used that information to prove a point to her. Her pulse quickened and she stood and dropped a pair of twenties on the table. “Wylie, you’ll know when to get in touch with me.” She disconnected the call and motioned to Starsky. “Let’s get out of here.”