“You left so abruptly, I wondered if you’d gotten another lead.” That wasn’t a question and the older man should know better than to fish with me.
“Just restless,” I told him as I continued to study the interior room. The mess was considerable. While I saw broken husks of computer towers, gutted of anything useful like a hard drive or memory card, there was also a gutted printer.
I kind of felt bad for the machine, except if whoever shredded this place had left it intact, then I could have at least seen what the last print job was. Probably the point.
“Also, you said you didn’t have long, so I can’t imagine you’re that upset that I left. I paid for the coffee.” The remark earned me a dry, far from amused laugh.
Something told me Lescheva had misplaced his sense of humor in this case. “No, I didn’t have long, but I did want to talk to you about what case brought you all the way out into the field again. I thought you’d given this up.”
I snorted. “Field work is like riding a bicycle, you never forget how to do it and sometimes, you just want to get out and have the wind in your face.” I returned to the main body of the condo. The bedroom was the most intact, so I sifted not only through the debris, but opened and closed every drawer, and got down to peer under the bed. “Besides, I don’t even know if what I’m following and the Danny Lions thing are connected.”
They were definitely connected. Something told me it tied into this Fletcher Reed as well—but was he an accomplice? A victim? A third-party?
Dad always believed there was a conspiracy of thieves that worked against us. Admittedly, the idea was a little out there, but not so much that it didn’t have merit. The FBI had its agents and other resources. We had forensics, criminologists, computer specialists, and data miners. We had support staff.
Why shouldn’t people like the Judge have the same?
“Some cases aren’t worth digging into—the hassle is far more than the reward.” Lescheva sighed. “Then again, your old man was a damn dog with a bone when he got his mind set to something.”
Chuckling, I shrugged, even if the man couldn’t see me. I backed up to the door and then glanced back at the bed. It was the only thing in the whole place that was still intact.Why?
“Dad would have enjoyed that description.”
The other man chuckled and this time, there was real humor behind the sound. “The old bastard would have.” Another sigh. “I miss him, kid.”
I wasn’t a kid, but I let him have it. “Same. Tell you what, if you’re gonna be around a while, I’ll call you and we can grab that meal. Compare notes. I’m not trying to step on your toes, but I need to follow this to where it leads.”
“Not all destinations are equal.”
“No,” I agreed with him. “They aren’t, but I have to check it out for myself. Kind of like how you don’t just rely on what the photos from the crime scene say…”
“…you have to walk it, because all the shots in the world can’t recreate a space.” Lescheva had known Dad pretty well. That had always been his mantra. If you worked a crime, you worked it and you went to the scene, you walked it, you spent time soaking it in and letting it reveal its secrets. Sometimes that took finesse and every time it took patience. “Fine kid, don’t make me wait on that call. If I have to come looking for you, it’ll be more than your bank account that’s hurting.”
“Right, I think I can handle it.” There was something to be said for life insurance policies, having saved money for years and invested it. I also didn’t have a wife or kids or a mortgage. Dad’s place had been paid off and the rent I made off of it currently provided me with capital for the road.
Disconnecting from the call, I shoved the phone in my pocket and walked back to the bed. Nothing under it, but I still knelt down and looked under the other side. This time, I used the mini flashlight I always carried for such a purpose. Nothing under the bed, but there were depressions in the carpet.
Something heavy had been down there and long enough to leave marks of their presence. I glanced back at where the secret room was then the bathroom and then at the bed. Sitting down on it, I leaned against the headboard and studied the room. The mattress was a little stiff but the covers were soft and expensive. I studied the walls from this angle and then slid off the bed, circled it and sat down on the other. This was it. The angle let me see the door to the secret room as well as the bathroom. I also had an excellent view of the little hall.
If I were a paranoid little hacker, who cut ties with my overprivileged family and got involved in the affairs of criminals, I’d want to be able to see all the angles too. Dropping my left hand, I worked it along the mattress until I could slide my hand under it. A piece of paper crinkled and I rose to flip the mattress up and retrieve it.
The page read, “Nice try, but I’m not 12 and I don’t have to hide my skin magazines under the bed. Better luck next time.”
The absolute cockiness in the note, along with the sheer impertinence, made me laugh. What a dick. Flipping the page over, I found it to be blank. Still, that said the kid expected something like this to happen. Or maybe he expected someone to toss the place.
“He did this himself,” I said on an exhale. “No way someone trashes this place looking for something and doesn’t touch the bed or find this dickish note.” Carrying it with me, I walked back out into the living room. That was what was bothering me about the scene earlier. It was calculated, the destruction done in careful waves, moving out from the center of the room as though they were trying to avoid leaving a pattern.
That was the problem with people though—none of us could be truly random. There was always some method to our various madnesses. Still, one more deep search revealed nothing useful and I headed for the elevator.
Wait—access.
The elevator brought you up to this floor or down. It required keycard or code to get upstairs. The security guard in the lobby had badged me up here. But they had to have a staircase. Every building did. It was a hazard to use the elevator in case of fire, so I went hunting the emergency stairs. Sure enough, they weren’t that far from the condo entrance.
At least I was walking down twenty-five flights rather than up. But I had a feeling this guy wasn’t going to make getting what he needed, especially an emergency pack, harder to find if he were on the run.
It took ten floors, but I found it on fifteen, slotted neatly behind an emergency fire case that included an axe and a fire extinguisher. It was a hard piece of cardboard with a key attached to it. That was it.
It had to be Fletcher Reed’s. Why? Because I refused to think I’d done all of this to find some random key. Besides, what were the chances of the building being home to some other paranoid freak?