By the Book, page 8
He could have left only the external drive itself at home, but he’d cross-referenced with programs on the laptop that helped him keep track of everything, and he wasn’t sure what traces that had left. No, for the time being at least, he was better off doing his snooping in the privacy of his apartment.
He was working his way down a list of bookings that his fingers would normally be flying to log, but the desktop was sluggish, and he had to go back over an entry more than once, to make sure each input was actually logged. This was the main reason he’d started to bring his laptop in the first place. He hated being slowed down by the machine.
Around lunchtime, the lag was so bad that he decided to save what he had and do a cold restart. Of course the fucking program froze up as soon as he hit the X button. Awww man.
They had a company they could call that took care of their IT stuff, but it was notoriously hard to reach, and Ben hated listening to elevator music on the phone as much as waiting for a slow computer to do its thing. He tried to remember what the IT guy had walked him through the last time this had happened.
There was a monitoring program somewhere that would show him a list of all open processes on his computer. From that he should be able to kill his frozen program and start over.
He wiggled his mouse, and the cursor moved, if slowly. So far, so good. He managed to find the program and the list he was looking for, and—oh, yeah—Bilanz Account Software, his frozen program, was right at the top, hogging processing power like a black hole swallowed energy. Die, motherfucker.
The browser also seemed to take up a lot of the processor’s attention, so he killed that as well. But there was a program in second place that he didn’t recognize. Virtual Network Client? Could he kill that? Or was that something essential?
He pulled his phone out and googled it. Then he stared at the small phone screen, his stomach clenching as the implications sank in.
Virtual Network Client seemed to be a system that allowed someone else to access his screen from a different computer.
He tried not to panic. This could be completely harmless; it could be the IT company trying to make tech support easier. But then why run it in the background, slowing everything down, when he hadn’t called IT in months?
No, someone was spying on him. He threw a nervous glance around the room. Anyone in here? Or worse, Sullivan? Ben’s heart skipped a beat. He powered down his computer and slowly counted to ten-Mississippi, trying to remember if he’d ever hunted for the suspicious account errors on his desktop.
If he had, it’d been before this whole mess. And it was his job, wasn’t it? But then Henderson had simply done his job, too. Fuck. Don’t panic. If nothing has happened until now, nothing probably will. Breathe.
Right as he was restarting his system, Sullivan came strolling into the room, and Ben’s heart threatened another attack.
Sullivan never came in here. He sent Beth, or an email, if he wanted anything. People came to his office. What the hell was he doing here?
Ben restarted his system, waiting, heart in his throat, for all the parameters to load. He wasn’t sure if Sullivan would find it suspicious that he’d restarted his system. Though, if he’d been spying on his screen, he already knew, anyway.
Sullivan stopped here and there, checked what people were working on, made some remarks, answered some questions.
Ben tried not to drum his fingers on his desk, though he couldn’t help fidgeting with his pen. His accounts were finally back on screen a split second before Sullivan came to stand behind him.
Ben resumed working on his bookings, outwardly calm, as if nothing had happened, but his heart was galloping in his throat. He was sure Sullivan would hear it if he paid attention.
“Everything okay?” Sullivan asked. “Nothing out of the ordinary?”
“Computer’s a bit slow,” Ben said, just in case Sullivan had seen him restart the system. “Other than that, it’s fine.”
“Good, good. Let’s keep it that way. No reason to worry about things the police are already taking care of.”
Ben had thought he’d kept his poker face. Why would Sullivan say that? Ben had no idea if an answer was required, so he shut up, and eventually Sullivan moved on.
Had that been a warning to keep his nose clean? It tickled something in the back of Ben’s mind, something Sullivan had said on Sunday. Ben hadn’t thought anything of it then, couldn’t even recall the exact words right now. But he had a niggling feeling it had been in the same ominous vein: Mind your own business.
As soon as Sullivan was gone, Ben called his mother. He hadn’t talked to her since Friday, and while she didn’t typically worry about him, he had a sudden urge to make sure she was okay.
“Hey, Ma,” he said when he heard her voice. “Want me to come over for dinner tonight, since Friday didn’t happen?” And yeah, maybe the thought of an empty apartment didn’t feel particularly cozy right now either.
“Oh, I’m at work. I caught a late shift.”
“Okay, cool.” It totally was. And Ben was not a lost waif. “I mainly just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
There was a brief pause before she said, “How about tomorrow?” And then, “Are you okay?”
“I’m great,” he lied. “You?”
“I can’t wait to see you.” She didn’t usually say things like that, and she hadn’t answered the question. Also, tomorrow was Thursday, only a day before he’d be back to see her, anyway. Ben was glad he’d called.
“I’ll be there around seven.” And this time there better not be any dead bodies.
* * *
When he entered the walk-up to his building, a familiar figure detached itself from the door, and made Ben stop in his tracks. Andy. Shit. Now what?
“I’m sorry,” Andy said. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.” Supplication personified.
For a moment Ben was almost tempted. The baggage of the past week sat heavily on his shoulders, and it would be nice to have someone to relax with, if only for a few hours. But then Andy wouldn’t relax him; he merely knew which buttons to push. Plus, hooking up again just so Ben wouldn’t be alone was as pathetic as it was stupid.
“Go home, Andy,” he said instead.
“C’mon, man. At least give me a chance.” Adorable pout.
At a loss, Ben simply stood and looked at him for a moment. He wasn’t about to restart that particular cycle, but he also felt like he’d be kicking a puppy to the curb. That was, until Andy stole a glance at his watch. Suddenly a puzzle piece clicked into place, and Ben knew again why Andy was really here.
“How much?” he asked quietly.
Andy opened his eyes extra wide. “What? No. That’s not why I’m here at all!” Persecuted princess.
Ben didn’t reply, only stood, and waited.
Andy shoved both hands in his pockets and pulled his shoulders up. “I mean, since you’re asking, I could use a Benjamin.”
Consigning himself to cold cereal for the rest of the month, Ben pulled out his wallet and handed him the hundred, which Andy quickly took and stashed in his pocket. Then, shifting his weight to the other foot, he said without looking at Ben, “Or two.”
Un-fucking-believable. Out loud Ben said mildly, “Don’t push it.”
When Andy shifted his weight back and took a breath, Ben added, “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn around and go back to where you came from.” He paused briefly, watched Andy make puppy eyes and open his mouth.
“And if you ever,” Ben cut him off, “try to contact me again, or I so much as see you hanging around my door? You’re going to severely regret the day you met me. That’s a promise.”
Andy’s brows drew together over suddenly narrow eyes. “I already do,” he hissed.
Way past tired of the game, Ben almost turned and left him standing, but he had a point to make, so instead he took a step forward, crowding Andy, and another one, making his body hard, so Andy had to take a step back to keep his balance. It wasn’t Ben’s style to threaten anyone, but that didn’t mean he was clueless about how to do it.
He didn’t have to take another step. Andy turned and walked away, the small, angry, “Fuck you!” almost lost on the summer breeze.
Ben took a deep breath and tried to file the whole episode away under Shit he really hadn’t needed right now. He wasn’t sure if giving Andy the money had been the right thing to do. He was probably just enabling whatever crap the man was currently up to. But at least Andy wouldn’t be sleeping under a bridge tonight. Or if he was, it wasn’t on Ben’s head.
* * *
So, Ben got stuck in his empty apartment all by his lonely self after all, and there was only so much time one could waste with making dinner and cleaning up. He briefly contemplated going to the range, but his head was too full of thoughts that were jumping all over the place. A good many of them having to do with last night. He wouldn’t have a chance in hell to empty it out enough to focus on a target.
When he caught himself sitting in the chair Marshall had sat in, with his hands on the armrests where the agent’s had been, he jumped to his feet with a soft “Fuck.”
He curled up on the couch, trying to concentrate on a book, then TV, but not even that worked. His brain kept coming back to either those willing, kissable lips, or that ominous line, delivered in Agent Marshall’s well-bred voice: Get away from the office for a few days.
Despite his promise, he’d been ignoring that suggestion, because thinking about it meant thinking about an uncertain future. But he knew perfectly well that he’d been sticking his head in the sand. He hadn’t lied to Marshall when he’d implied he’d be fired if he didn’t show up for work. But he’d been skirting the fact that his job was doomed in any case.
Venture was a single member LLC, and that single member was Sullivan. Even if there was someone else to take over the company if—when—Sullivan went to prison, there was still the fact that substantial company assets were proceeds of crimes and would surely be seized. And even if Venture survived all that without going into liquidation, the company would be severely truncated. No, Ben was out of a job in the short to midterm whichever decision he took.
Why then was he so loath to follow Marshall’s well-meant advice? Sullivan was clearly dangerous, and Ben was way too pragmatic for stupid heroics, so why wasn’t he running?
He went to his desk, pulled out the bottom drawer and carried it over to the couch table. He didn’t have the full police report on his father’s death, but he had the report that had been released to the public, and every document, newspaper article, and interview he’d been able to get his hands on. It wasn’t much. It fit in a single document cover. Ben wasn’t questioning his decision to pull it out now, was following his instinct, the feeling that it had something to do with the decision he had to make. To stay or go, fight or run.
He stared at the picture he kept in there, of Dad with Ben on his shoulders, in front of Wonderland Greyhound Park, the old racetrack in Revere, long since closed down. It was the only picture he’d kept. He didn’t care about the one in the obit that was from an old job application. It didn’t look like the man he was trying to remember.
“Talk to me, Dad. What were you running from?”
The question that had haunted him since he’d been old enough to ask it. Had his dad been running from shady characters that he had—accidentally or intentionally—found out too much about? Or from an accomplice in a deal gone sour? Had he been a good guy, or did Ben have something to make up for? And even if he didn’t, was running the right choice? Was it even the safe choice?
The thing was, in order to run away, you had to turn your back to the very thing that scared you into running in the first place. Which meant you couldn’t see it anymore. Taking his eyes off a threat struck Ben as inherently dangerous. And some things...some things you couldn’t even outrun.
Then again, there were things you’d be stupid to try to fight. Which one was it? If he ran, if he went into hiding, would he be doing the sane and safe thing, or would he just be repeating family history?
Chapter Eight
Nick
“Call it,” Duncan said. “You’re already cross-eyed.”
He was right. Nick pressed thumb and index against his eyelids to get rid of the video’s after-images. As far as CCTV coverage was concerned, the areas covering the front entrance of the Arch Street Tower and the parking garage exit around the side had proven to be a gold mine from every angle. Going through hours of footage, however, was more like working in the salt mines. But it kept him busy and his thoughts from straying into forbidden territory.
He leaned back in his chair and stretched arms and legs. “I have nothing, rien, nada.”
“How about a beer?”
The very mention made Nick’s throat feel parched. “Outstanding plan. Have we heard anything from the BPD?”
Duncan made a face. “The poor sods must have talked to every single soul working in the building, and not one of them has seen or heard anything unusual.”
Nick stopped the video, and then sat staring at the still image of the street corner on his screen as if it were an oracle. “I have the most annoying feeling that I’m missing something.”
“Try again in the morning with a fresh brain.”
Everyone else in the department had already bailed. He and Duncan were the last ones in the office. “Spoken like a wise man. Lead the way, so I can ogle your ass.”
With a grin, Duncan pivoted on one foot and sashayed to the elevator.
* * *
The feds’ local hangout was Cool Blue, an ultramodern cocktail and tapas bar only a block from the field office. Small tables to the left of the door sat nestled against semicircular black leather couches that muted the sound; a galaxy mural on a dividing wall cordoned off a pool table to the right. Blue LEDs running around the edge of the long stainless-steel bar mirrored the color of the Bombay Sapphire bottles on glass shelves in front of the bar mirror. Nick had never found out if the place was named for the lighting or the clientele. Not that it was uniforms hanging out here, not typically. It wasn’t your usual cop hangout, and the BPD had their own haunt. There wasn’t a lot of mingling going on.
Ben would like it here, but of course Nick could never bring him here, should, in fact, bleach him from any thought that wasn’t work related. He had no idea why that should fill him with such melancholy.
Duncan ordered pints and the shareable special, then gave Nick a long, inviting look with raised eyebrows. Nick smiled, but for once didn’t take the bait.
“What?” Duncan said with mock outrage. “No salacious remark about sharing a plate? I think I’m offended.”
“Don’t be, you’re still gorgeous.” Nick pushed a beer mat from one hand to the other on the table. “I don’t know what it is about this case. God knows we’ve been frustrated before, but this one just tires me out. It’s draining my will to live.”
“Huh. You don’t think you could be a little more dramatic if you tried?”
“Shut up.” But he had to laugh, which had likely been the goal.
They were both hungry enough to stop talking once the food was on the table. The place wasn’t hopping, but still reasonably full for a Wednesday night. A twenty-something stranger in too-tight jeans was staring at Nick from the bar. He nodded almost imperceptibly when Nick’s eyes met his.
Nick was out and loud and talked-about enough that it happened occasionally, even here, though the guy was likely not law enforcement. Most of that breed were still very homo-skittish. Nick shook his head, declining the invitation as covertly as it had been issued.
He was suddenly more than tired; he was bone weary. “Is this it?” He wasn’t even sure whether he was asking Duncan or talking to himself. “Is this all we get? Work, sleep, the occasional fuck with a stranger on the weekend?”
Duncan stared into his beer, too much of a gentleman, or plain too nice, to point out that Nick didn’t have much to complain about compared to most people. He wasn’t just Nick’s partner; he was a most excellent human being, and the best friend a guy could ask for. Not that Nick would ever tell him that. But eventually Duncan said, “Depends what you want, I guess.”
“What I want?” The world didn’t seem on board these days with what Nick wanted. Like a certain accountant. Shoving Nick against doorframes. Christ.
“Aye, you know, the pursuit of happiness. If the occasional fuck with a stranger is what you’re pursuing, then that’s what you get.” With an uncanny knack the bastard had zeroed in on the salient point Nick didn’t want to acknowledge. He’d been fine with one-night stands or weekenders since the dawn of his adulthood. Why did they suddenly seem stale?
“What if I want more out of life?” Did he, though? Did he even deserve more than what he already had? One-offs were easy to take or leave. Nick had never lost his cool like he had last night. What was it about Bennett Coyne that had made Nick break the rules? He had a niggling suspicion that young Coyne was complicating Nick’s life in more ways than just professionally. None of these were questions Nick really wanted to think about, much less ask out loud.
Duncan shrugged. “If you want more, you’ll have to risk more. It’s a return on investment.”
So much for best friend. Fucker. “Really. And how do you know when to invest, smart-ass?” Surely, a limpid pair of Bambi eyes weren’t a sound investment. Especially when they turned gray steel like they had last night. That struck Nick as one of those catastrophic gambles that could cost a sucker more than he could afford.
