“Dr. Oltamu is dead,” Abby said. “So who are you and why are you answering a dead man’s phone?”
The silence went on so long that Abby checked to see whether the call was still connected. It was. As she started to speak again, the man finally answered.
“Would this be Abby Kaplan?”
“Good guess. Now, what’s your name?”
“That’s not important.”
“Of course not.” Abby got to her feet and started pacing the empty bedroom, the phone held tightly. “Give me another name, then — give me the kid’s name.”
“The kid.”
“That’s right. Tell me who he was and I won’t need your name. I want him.”
Another silence. Abby glanced at the display again — she’d been on the phone for thirty-seven seconds. How long was too long to stay connected?
“Do it fast,” she said.
“I’ve got no idea what kid you’re asking about. Or why you called this number.”
“Then why did you answer?” Abby knelt and punched the home button on the clone phone, which brought up the picture of Tara Beckley. She was ready to tell the man on the other end of the line what she had, ready to try a bargain, but she stopped herself.
She thought she understood now, understood the whole damn thing — or at least a much larger portion than she had before.
I’ve been there, she thought, looking at the photo. The background over Tara’s shoulder showed spindled shadows looming just past her pensive, awkward smile. Shadows from an old bridge. Abby had paced that same spot with a camera. That place was where this photo had been taken. Hammel College’s campus was just across the river.
“You got the wrong phone,” Abby said.
“What does that mean?” the man said, but his voice had changed, and he hadn’t asked the question out of confusion — he was intrigued. Wary, maybe, but intrigued.
“The one you just answered doesn’t matter,” Abby said. “The one I’ve got does. It might not even be a phone, but it’s what you wanted. It’s what you need now.”
When the man didn’t speak, Abby felt a cold smile slide over her face. “You took two of them,” she said. “You took Tara Beckley’s phone and Oltamu’s. That was the job. Other than killing him, of course. The job was to kill him and take the phones. I don’t know why, but I know that’s what you were trying to do. But there were three phones, and you didn’t know that. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“Why don’t you explain—”
“You missed one,” Abby said. “And if you want it, you’re going to need to give me the kid who killed Hank. Think we can make that trade?”
“I bet if we meet in person, we can work this out. Quickly. How about that, Abby? You’re in some trouble, and I can ensure that it ends. You need some serious help.”
“And you need that phone. So make a gesture of good faith. Tell me his name.”
Pause. “I’d be lying if I told it to you. There’s my gesture of good faith. Whatever name he’s going by now, I don’t know it.”
For the first time, Abby believed him. “I need to come out of this alive,” she said.
“You will.”
“I’ll believe that when you tell me where to find him.”
No response. Abby looked at the phone again. What if the call was being traced? How long was too long? “Make a choice,” she said.
“Okay. All right. But it will take me some time. And I’ll need to know you’ve got the phone and where you are. You tell me that, I’ll put him in the same place. How you handle it then is up to you.”
“What do you call him?” Abby said.
“Huh?”
“Forget his real name. What do you call him?”
Another pause, and then: “Dax.”
“Dax.”
“Yes. But it won’t help you. Trust me, he’s not going to be located under that name.”
“That’s fine. You want the phone, you’ll put him where I can find him. Agreed?”
“Tell me something about the phone.”
“It’s a fake, for one.”
She could hear the man on the other end of the line exhale. “A fake?”
“Yes. It’s built to look like an iPhone, but it’s not one. Now — ready to make a deal on giving me your boy Dax?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Then I’ll call back. From a different number.”
“Hang on. Tell me where you—”
Abby cut him off. “End of round one. Answer when I call again.”
“Hang on, hang on, don’t—”
Abby disconnected and stood looking at the phone. Her hand was trembling. She powered the phone down. She didn’t want it putting out any sort of signal.
Who the hell was that? Who answered Oltamu’s phone?
Not Oltamu, that was for sure. And not a cop.
The options left weren’t good.
She sat beside Hank Bauer’s rifle and picked up the fake phone, trying to imagine what had made it worth killing for and what Tara Beckley had understood about it when her photo was taken. The smile was uncomfortable, forced, and the man she’d been with had been killed a few minutes — seconds? — later. Tara had been sent spinning into the river below and then rushed to the hospital, where she now lay in a coma. But there was a difference between uncomfortable and afraid, and as Abby looked at her face, she was sure Tara hadn’t been scared. Not yet, at least. Maybe after, maybe soon after, but not in the moment of that photograph.
Access authentication: Enter the name of the individual pictured above.
She hesitated, then typed Tara and hit Enter.
The display blinked, refreshed, and said Access denied, two tries remaining.
“Shit,” Abby whispered, and she set the phone down as if she were afraid of it.
As if? No. You are afraid of it.
People were being killed over this thing, and for what? Something stored on it made sense, but wasn’t everything cloud-based now? What would be on the phone that couldn’t be accessed by a hacker? Hacking it seemed easier than leaving a bloody trail of victims up the Atlantic coast. She stared at the device as if it would offer an answer. It couldn’t. But who could?
Oltamu.
Right. A dead man.
“Why’d they kill you, Doc?” she whispered.
She couldn’t begin to guess because she didn’t know the first thing about Oltamu. That was a problem. Abby was out in front, but she didn’t know what was coming for her.
Look in the rearview mirror, then. Pause and look in the rearview.
To get answers, she would have to start with the first of the dead men.
30
Whenever the concealed microphones in Gerry Connors’s office were activated, Dax Blackwell received an alert on his phone. Generally, he chose not to listen unless Gerry was in the midst of a deal. He was always curious to determine how Gerry valued his efforts, since in Dax’s business, it was difficult to get a sense of the going professional rates. There weren’t many Glassdoor.com reviews for what he did.
Today he listened, tucking in earbuds. He sat in the car with an energy drink in hand and listened to Gerry Connors give his name to Abby Kaplan.
He was surprised by how disappointed he felt. He’d known Gerry was a risk, because anyone who knew how to find you was a risk, and yet he’d had as much trust in Gerry as anyone on earth since his father and uncle had been killed.
Time to put that away, though. Disappointment wasn’t a useful emotion; it did nothing to help your next steps.
And why be surprised? He remembered a day at the shooting range with his uncle and father, Patrick putting round after round into the bull’s-eye from two hundred yards, totally focused, eye to the scope, and Dax’s father looking on with the sort of pride that Dax wanted to inspire in him. Something about watching that shooting display had made his father reflective. Jack Blackwell tended to be philosophical when guns were in hand.