“See what she has on Facebook, okay?”
“You can’t do that unless you’re one of her ‘friends.’”
“Can’t you just hack her password?”
She shrugged. “I’ll look into it.”
“So what’s the problem with locating her iPhone?”
“It’s just about impossible unless you’re law enforcement.”
“I thought there was some way for iPhone owners to track down their lost phones.”
“We’d need her Mac user name and password. And I’m guessing she doesn’t share things like passwords with Daddy.”
“You can’t crack it, or hack it, or whatever you do?”
“Yeah, I can just snap my fingers and I’m in, just like magic. No, Nick, that takes time. I’d have to make a list of her pets’ names and any important dates, and try the ten most common passwords, and that’s a crapshoot. Even if I do succeed, odds are we won’t get anything, because she’d have had to activate the MobileMe finder on her phone, and I doubt she did. She’s seventeen and probably not real big into the technology.”
“Probably not.”
“Fastest way is ask AT &T to ping the phone through their network.”
“Which they’ll only do for law enforcement,” I said. “There’s got to be some other way to find this girl’s phone.”
“Not that I know of.”
“So you’re giving up.”
“I said not that I know of. I didn’t say I’m giving up. I never give up.” She looked up and noticed Gabe lurking outside my office door. “Anyway, I think your son is getting hungry,” she said with a wink.
11.
I took Gabe to Mojo’s, a bar down the street that served lunch. This was a typical Boston bar-five flat screens all showing sports or sports news shows, lots of Red Sox and Celtics memorabilia, a foosball table in the back, pub food like wings and nachos and burgers, a sticky wooden-plank floor. They served good cold beer as well as the infamous local brew, Brubaker’s, which even I had to admit was pretty bad. The patrons were a democratic mix of stockbrokers and cabdrivers. A local reviewer once compared Mojo’s regulars to the cantina scene in Star Wars: that collection of weird-looking intergalactic creatures. Herb, the owner, liked that so much he had the article framed and put on the wall.
“I like that new girl you hired,” Gabe said.
“Jillian?”
“Yeah, she’s cool.”
“She’s different, that’s for sure. Now, tell me: Is Nana abusing you?”
“Nah, she’s cool.”
“How about Lilly? How’s Lilly treating you?”
Lilly was my mother’s dog, a shar-pei/English mastiff mix she’d rescued from the pound. Lilly was not only the ugliest dog in the world but also the worst-tempered. She’d been abandoned multiple times and I could see why.
“I’m really trying to like her,” Gabe said, “but she’s… I mean, I hate that dog. Plus, she stinks.”
“She’s the hound from hell. Don’t look into her eyes.”
“Why not?”
“The last person who did dropped dead on the spot. They say it was a heart attack, but…” I shrugged.
“Yeah, right.”
“You miss being home?”
“Miss it? Are you kidding?”
“Life at home not so good these days?”
“It sucks.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“What’s with the earring?”
He said, defensively, “What about it?”
“Does your mom know you got your ear pierced?”
He shrugged. Asked and answered.
“I forget,” I said. “Does the left side mean you’re gay?”
He blushed, which turned his acne scarlet. “No. Left is right and right is wrong, ever hear that?”
“Aha,” I said. “So being gay is wrong?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I smiled. Gabe could be insufferable in that know-it-all teenage way, so I considered it my civic duty to keep him off balance.
Herb took our order. Normally he was stationed behind the bar, but lunchtimes were always slow. He was a large-framed potbellied guy with a heavy Southie accent. “Yo Nicky,” he said. “How’s the accounting business? You got any tips for me, like how to stop paying taxes?”
“Easy.”
“Yeah?”
“Do what I do. Just don’t pay ’em.”
He paused, then laughed loudly. It didn’t take much to amuse him.
“Truth is, I’m an actuary.” The sign on our office door said HELLER ASSOCIATES-ACTUARIAL CONSULTING SERVICES. This was an excellent cover. As soon as I told people I was an actuary, they stopped asking questions.
“Right, right,” he said. “What’s an actuary, again?”
“Damned if I know.”
He laughed again. “Gotta hand it to you, man,” he said kindly, “I don’t know how you do it. Crunching numbers all day? I’d go out of my mind.”
Gabe gave me a quick, knowing smile. I ordered a burger and fries and asked him to make sure they weren’t the “curry fries,” which were inedible. Gabe looked up from the menu. “Do you have veggie burgers?” he asked.
“We have turkey burgers, young fella,” Herb said.
Gabe furrowed his brow and tipped his head to the side. I recognized that look. It was the supercilious expression that got him beat up at school on a regular basis and sometimes even thrown out of classes. “Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize turkey was a vegetable.”
Herb gave me a sideways glance as if to say, Who the hell is this kid? But he liked me too much to give it back to my guest. “How about a Cobb salad?” he said blandly.
“Yuck,” Gabe said. “I’ll just have a plate of fries and ketchup. And a Coke.”
When Herb left, I said, “Looks like Jillian has a new recruit.”
“Jillian says that eating red meat makes you aggressive,” Gabe said.
“And that’s a bad thing?”
He refused to take the bait. “Whatever. Hey, Uncle Nick, you know, that was a good idea you had about Alexa’s Facebook.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Alexa Marcus? Her dad is scared something might’ve happened to her?”
I looked at him for a few seconds, then slowly smiled. “You son of a bitch. You were eavesdropping.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“Did you know Dorothy has an audio feed on her computer that lets her listen in to everything you say in your office?”
“Yes, Gabe. That’s our arrangement. The real question is, does Dorothy know you were snooping around on her computer?”
“Please don’t tell her. Please, Uncle Nick.”
“So what were you thinking about her Facebook page?”
“You’re not going to tell her, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Okay. I’m pretty sure I know where Alexa went last night.”
“How so?”
“It was on her Facebook wall.”
“How were you able to see that?”
“We’re Facebook friends.”
“Really?”
“Well, I mean, like,” he stammered, his face flushing again, “she has like eleven hundred Facebook friends, but she let me friend her.”
“Very cool,” I said, only because he sounded so proud.
“She came over to Nana’s a couple of times since I’ve been there. I like her. She’s cool. And it’s not like she has to be nice to me, you know?”
I nodded. Beautiful rich girls like Alexa Marcus usually weren’t nice to annoying, nerdy boys like Gabe Heller.
“So where’d she go?”
“She and her friend Taylor went to Slammer.”
“Which is what?”
“Some fancy bar in that hotel that used to be a jail? I think it’s called the Graybar?”
“Taylor-is that a boy or a girl?”
“A girl. Taylor Armstrong? She’s the daughter of Senator Richard Armstrong. Taylor and Alexa went to school together.”
I glanced at my watch, put my hand on his shoulder. “How about we ask them to pack up our food to go?” I said.
“You’re going to talk to Taylor?”