Secrets Don't Sink, page 9
“Let me know if you need anything.”
I turned to Darren with the most withering gaze I could muster, practically shaking with rage. “Get out of my office. If you ever talk to me that way again, I’ll report you to Anderson.”
His face morphed from frustration to dismay, to determined resignation. “I’m sorry, Audrey. It didn’t have to be this way.” He turned on his heel and walked out the door.
I grabbed my laptop off my desk, packed my bag, and stormed my way across the office. If anyone foolishly attempted to make eye contact with me, I didn’t notice. When I pulled into my parking space at home, I had little recollection of the drive other than one long cuss-filled ranting monologue about Darren.
After pouring a glass of the Moscato I’d opened a few nights earlier, I practiced breathing techniques I’d learned from my three pathetic attempts at hot yoga.
What in the hell was going on? Sip. Deep breath. Darren was acting like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Sip. Deep breath. Marcus was dead. Sip. Deep breath. And, apparently, a crazy person. Sip. Deep breath. Or maybe not, since his conspiracy theories were close enough to the truth to have gotten him killed. Sip. Deep breath. Who was Nettie?
I set my wineglass on a coaster and pulled out my laptop. I’d only found Marcus’s website because I’d googled Nettie, but I’d gotten sidetracked by the blog post regarding Marcus’s father’s disappearance and had forgotten what had led me there in the first place.
Scanning the titles, I finally hit pay dirt.
“Jonathan and Nettie: The True Story the Chatterton Family Doesn’t Want You to Know.”
The article was dated the day before Marcus died.
“Bingo!” I shouted into my empty apartment. “I have the smoking gun!” I clicked on the link but got an error. “File not found. That can’t be.” Hitting the back button, I clicked the link again and got the same result. “Well, that’s freaking fantastic. What are the odds?”
I swigged my wine. What were the odds? I clicked around, but all the other articles had active links. The only dead link on the site was the Nettie post.
Someone must have deleted the article. It was the only logical explanation…unless he never wrote it. If that were the case, though, why would he have published a link with no content? Perhaps it was to taunt someone with the title itself.
“Coastal Current. This is Tasha.”
“Hey, Tash, it’s Audrey.”
“Oh hey, Audrey. I thought you left already. After, uh, you know…”
“What?”
Tasha lowered her voice. “Everyone heard the fight with Darren. The walls are pretty thin around here. Keith said he thought he was gonna have to bust down the door.”
I sighed. “I need to talk to Sandros. I’m at home. Otherwise, I’d go deal with this in person.”
“Sandros? Is that why Darren was yelling at you for kissing Sandros at the party? Are you dumping Darren for Sandros?”
“Oh, good grief, no. I need to talk to him about computer stuff.”
Tasha paused before speaking. “You know, Sandros isn’t Quasimodo, Audrey. He’s pretty decent, actually. Anyway, let me see if he’s still there.”
Tasha transferred me to Sandros’s line, but after a few rings, it went to voice mail.
“Hey, Sandros, it’s Audrey O’Connell. I’ve got a question for you, but I guess you’ve left for the night. I’ll come find you in the morning.”
I hoped I hadn’t slurred my words. The last thing I needed was Sandros thinking I’d drunk-dialed him because of my fight with Darren.
Once again risking a wine-induced misunderstanding, I sent a message to Holden.
Hey. Just wanted to update you. I’m working on a couple angles. I’ll let you know if they pan out. I’m also going to try to find time in the next couple days to see Peter Chatterton. I’m hoping he’ll fill in some blanks for me. I got a call earlier from CPD. I’m coming in around noon tomorrow to sit with a sketch artist. I’m guessing they’ll also want me to make a statement. Wish me luck. Have a good night.
Audrey
“All the rest can wait until tomorrow.” I pulled a blanket over my legs and grabbed my wine, along with the TV remote. “I’m gonna relax, not think about icky stuff, drink wine, and watch a Hallmark romance movie.”
Sip. Deep Breath.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, my alarm woke me from a deep Moscato-induced slumber with the familiar opening notes of “Masquerade.” After showering, I styled my hair and pulled on my favorite curve-enhancing khaki slacks paired with a butterscotch sweater, coordinating silk scarf, and leather boots. I finished the look with a shiny plum lip gloss.
Using my feminine wiles, such as they were, in order to elicit Sandros’s help would be justified if Marcus’s killer were caught and brought to justice. If my boss saw me, however, he might up his expectations. I’d gotten away with yoga pants and jeans at work for too long to give it up. He also wanted an update on my story, and it wasn’t ready yet, so I needed to sneak in to see Sandros.
Tasha was on the phone when I arrived at the Current. She mouthed, “Sandros is here,” and pointed to her right.
“Thank you,” I mouthed back to her.
By the time I’d maneuvered past Anderson’s office and rounded the partition into the IT area, I was winded and cursing my lack of cardio.
Sandros and three other guys shared the area, each with their own cubicle. None of the cubicles surrounding Sandros’s were currently occupied. One domain had been plastered with posters from Game of Thrones, while another contained nothing but a monitor, keyboard, mouse, and a Costco-sized container of cleaning wipes. In contrast, the final cubical looked like someone had dumped their trash can all over their desk and floor following a munchie binge.
Sandros’s desk was comparatively basic. His supplies were organized, although not compulsively so. He only had one item hanging on his wall, a calendar featuring ancient Greek architecture. He was freshly showered–with ringlets of wet hair and strong aftershave–and wore pressed beige slacks with a light-blue button-up shirt that nicely offset his Mediterranean skin. He was handsome in a geeky way.
He spun to face me, wearing a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. He raised and lowered his unibrow suggestively. “Well, hello there, Audrey. I have been expecting you.” He transformed from moderately handsome to outright creepy in an instant. “You seem a bit…breathless.” His lascivious gaze matched his smarmy smile.
“I had to run the gauntlet to get over here without being seen.”
“How excitingly clandestine.” He raised and lowered his unibrow again.
Against my better judgment, I decided to play to his ego by taking on the role of damsel in distress. “I need your help, Sandros. You’re the only one I can turn to.”
He tsked. “To whom I can turn, Audrey. To whom I can turn. What kind of writer dangles her prepositions so…wantonly?” His slow perusal of my body felt like a violation.
“People’s lives may be at stake here, Sandros.”
He shifted his attention from my breasts to my face. “What do you mean?”
“May I sit here?” I gestured toward the middle cubicle.
“I wouldn’t. Take Thanh’s chair. Gerald goes a little psycho when people touch his stuff, and Donnie seems to be conducting biological experiments.”
A glimpse at Donnie’s monitor revealed several open browser windows with titles such as “Ten Ways to Cure Scalp Itch” and “Dry Scalp and You.” I pulled the chair over to Sandros’s desk and lowered my voice to a surreptitious whisper.
“What do you know about hacking?”
His brow furrowed into a V. “Depends on who’s asking. What specifically do you want to know?”
“You heard Marcus Washburn was killed a few days ago, right?”
“Yeah.” He frowned. “Rumor has it you found him.”
“Not exactly. People at the docks saw him floating and fished him out. I happened upon the scene a few minutes later. Did you know Marcus?”
“Everybody knew Marcus. He was always spouting off about one crazy thing or another. He used to write a letter to the editor at least once a week. I always thought it was the most entertaining section of the paper, but then Anderson stopped publishing them. He said it was giving credence to wacky conspiracy theories.”
“It seems as though I’m the only one who didn’t know that side of him.”
“Well, he was probably trying to make a good impression. Nobody wants to show all their crazy when trying to woo a chick.”
“He wasn’t trying to woo me. He’s married. Was married.”
“Well, he was a red-blooded man, and you’re a beautiful woman. Anyway, what does that have to do with your hacking question?” He tented his fingertips.
“Last night, I came across Marcus’s blog website. I found a link to a potentially explosive article dated the day before he was killed, but the link is dead.”
Sandros’s brow jumped up and down with excitement. “What’s the name of his website again?” He swiveled toward his monitor. “Oh, yeah, the Veracitater.” He shook his head. “He started the blog after Anderson refused to publish any more of his ramblings. I think his first post accused Anderson and The Current of being a part of a media cabal protecting the corrupt elite and powerful dark forces, something like that. To which post are you referring?”
I pointed to the link at the top of the homepage. He clicked it and got the same error I’d gotten the night before. A repeated attempt to open the file didn’t change the results.
Sandros leaned back, tilted his head toward the ceiling, and blew out a long breath. He crooked his head in my direction. “If Marcus actually had an article on this page, it wouldn’t require high-level skills to remove it. Most of your advanced gamers can break into a site like this, even mid-level.”
“If you had to guess, how many guys in this general vicinity are capable of this type of hacking?”
“General vicinity? Hmm, well, everybody in this department, for starters. Thinking about other businesses in the area, the local guys on the gaming sites, it’s a lot. I mean, Seattle is a tech hub. Heck, my fourteen-year-old nephew could probably hack a site like this.”
“There goes that idea.”
“Yeah. They even wouldn’t have to be local. That’s kinda how the internet works, you know. I could hack a computer in Russia from this cubicle. Moscow, China, and North Korea have hacked computers in the U.S. Realistically, you’re looking at tens of thousands who are capable, maybe more.”
I grunted.
“You can eliminate most, though, because they’d have no reason to do it. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless someone hired them to do it. If I were you, I’d be looking at who would, because it’s pretty easy to find someone who could.” He leaned back and crossed his arms.
“What about social media sites?”
Sandros scrunched his face in disgust. “What about social media? Other than it’s a place for vapid narcissists trying to one-up each other.”
“I mean, how hard is it to hack into someone’s social media account?”
“Hmm. Well, that might be a little trickier. Definitely not impossible.”
“Would having direct access to their computer make a difference?”
“Why do you ask?” He shifted in his chair.
“Just curious.”
He narrowed his gaze but didn’t challenge me. “That would definitely make it easier because you wouldn’t have to hack the actual website. You could put a keystroke tracker into the system with a backdoor entrance giving a remote visual of everything typed on the computer. As for our friend, the Veracitater,” he paused to chuckle over Marcus’s self-given moniker. “Gimme time. I’m going to poke around here and see what I can find out. Sometimes hackers leave a trail.”
“How can you see that?”
“Well, my dear Audrey, I’m going to hack his site myself.”
I grabbed an open parking space three full blocks from City Hall, willing to walk the extra distance to avoid a possible repeat encounter with the parking spot thief. Also, since a ten-second office sprint had left me gasping for air, I definitely needed the exercise.
The biting wind nipped at my nose and ears. A storm was coming. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck, wishing I’d grabbed my wool coat before leaving home. It’s been said pride comes before the fall, but they should have added vanity often comes before hypothermia.
Stinging heat slapped my frozen cheeks as I entered the lobby. I checked my phone and discovered I had about twenty-five minutes before I was scheduled to meet with the forensic artist, so I bypassed Joan for the elevator.
Once I’d arrived on the second floor, music lilted into the hallway from behind the closed door to room 204. I knocked and opened it to find Holden sitting at his desk.
“This is a welcome surprise!” He jumped from his seat to usher me into his office. “A bit chilly out there, huh, Rudolph?” He tapped my rosy nose.
“Just a bit. Not in here, though. So, this is where all my tax dollars go, keeping this building at a balmy ninety degrees in the winter.”
“Exactly. Although if it were up to me, I’d keep this place at a brisk sixty-eight. I run a little hot.”
I loosened my scarf at the thought of Holden’s body heat. “I thought it was up to you. Don’t you have any sway around here, Mr. City Manager?”
“Joan has a thyroid condition and controls the thermostat. She’s right by the front door where the air comes in, so she takes the brunt. I’ve learned to dress in layers. In the summer, she cranks the AC, and this sauna becomes arctic.”
“Poor Holden, you’re probably only comfortable in May.”
“May twelfth, to be exact. Hey, so, don’t take this wrong because I’m happy to see you, but I’m curious why you’re gracing me with the pleasure of your company this morning.”
“I’m meeting with the forensic artist, but I’m early. I stopped by the paper for a bit, but I didn’t want to stick around in case I ran into…anyone. I thought since I’m here, I’d check in with you, compare notes.”
“I’m not sure I’ve got much to offer. I left Peg a voice mail. Haven’t heard back.”
“From what Anderson said, I’m not sure Peg even knows how to check her voicemail.”
“I’ll give her time to respond before I make the trek upstairs. What about you? Who are you avoiding at the office, and why?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk.
“Well, my boss, for one. I’m on a deadline and falling behind. I only went there to schmooze help from Sandros, our IT guy. I have him looking into the broken link on Marcus’s website. He thinks—”
Holden’s head popped up. “What broken link?”
I slapped my thigh in excitement. “Get this. Last night when I got home, I started drinking—”
Holden interrupted with a hearty laugh. “I like where this story’s going already. Is that when you messaged me?”
“Hush. It was one glass of wine. I needed it to clear the cobwebs, relax me enough to let the important thoughts rise to the surface. I remembered what led me to Marcus’s website in the first place. Nettie.”
“Nettie?”
“Nettie was the Flathead woman Jonathan Chatterton brought in to help care for his son after his wife died. George Hart’s book, the one I found in the museum archives, mentioned Nettie and rumors regarding her and Jonathan right before the missing pages.”
“Whoa, whoa, back up.” Holden held up both hands to pause the conversation. “What book? What missing pages? Sweetheart, you’ve got to start at the beginning. Explain to me what this book, the town founder who’s been dead for over a hundred years, and a woman named Nettie could possibly have to do with Marcus’s death.”
I gave a brief summary.
“Marcus posted a link to a blog he’d written one day prior to his death mentioning this Nettie woman specifically in relation to his father’s disappearance?”
“That’s why I snuck in to see Sandros this morning. He’s gonna help me by hacking–”
“Hold up!” Holden raised his hand again to stop me. “Don’t say another word. In this case, let’s go with a don’t ask, don’t tell policy.”
“Sandros agrees it’s possible someone hacked Marcus’s website to take down that article. My gut says whoever’s behind the hacking is connected to his death, either directly or indirectly.”
“Why do you say indirectly?”
“I asked him who had the capability. With the basic website Marcus was using, the pool’s pretty wide. He suggested money alone could be a motive.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, whoever hacked the site could’ve been hired to do so.”
“Ahh, I see. That does make it tough. Hypothetically, how could one with similar hacking ability be helpful in this scenario?”
“Hypothetically, the original hacker could’ve left a trail of computer-generated breadcrumbs which, depending on their sophistication level, could either lead us right to them or send us on a wild goose chase. Sandros says higher-level hackers use electronic diversionary tactics to cover their trail.”
“This is crazy. You know that, right?” Holden ran his hand over his scalp.
“Yes, I know. Crazy doesn’t mean untrue, though. We owe it to Marcus to find out who did this to him.”
“I never took anything he said seriously. If I had…” His voice cracked with emotion.
“Hey.”
I rose and went around the desk. Grabbing his shoulders, I turned him toward me. I squatted in front of him and grabbed his hand.
“You said yourself coulda-shoulda’s are useless and self-defeating.” My fingertips grazed the stubble on his cheek.
Staring into my eyes, he covered my hand with his. His lids fluttered shut, and he moved my palm to his mouth. Brushing his lips to my wrist, he pressed them against my skin. When his eyes reopened, they held the same conflicted desire as the night we’d gone to Nautilus.
I turned away from his pained expression. “Hoo boy.”
