“Oh,” Elena said because she wasn’t sure what else to say.
“We... we honeymooned there. It’s our favorite spot.”
Elena hit the Return key and waited for the icons to appear on the screen.
“What are you looking for?” Raff asked.
“This was Damien’s computer?”
“It’s our computer, yes.”
Again with the present tense.
“Are there any other computers on your network?” she asked.
“No.”
“How about clients? Could they access your network?”
“No. It’s password protected.”
“And this is the only computer on it?”
“Yes. Damien and I shared it, though I’m not really good with technology. Sometimes I would sit here and use it, and then Damien would sit on the other side of the desk. But most of the time, it was Damien’s.”
Elena was not great with technology either — that was why her firm had Lou — but she knew the basics. She brought up the browser and started checking the history. Neil Raff had been in Miami for the past five days, so all the recent surfing would have been done by Damien Gorse.
“I still don’t understand what you’re looking for,” Raff said.
There were a lot of image searches. She clicked on a random few. They were, as one might expect, tattoos, a wide variety of them. There were roses-and-barbed-wire tattoos, skeletons with crossbones, hearts of all shades and sizes. There was one tattoo of Pennywise the Clown, from Stephen King’s It, and several involving full-on sex acts including, uh, all fours (who actually got that as a tattoo?), and there were ones that said “Mom” and ones of tombstones for friends who’d died and full-arm sleeves and lots of wing designs for the lower back, what they used to call (maybe still do?) tramp stamps.
“We get ideas from the images,” Raff said. “We show the clients what’s been done so we can take it to the next level.”
The rest of the browser history looked equally routine. Damien Gorse had visited Rotten Tomatoes and bought movie tickets. He’d bought socks and K-Cup coffee pods from Amazon. He visited one of those DNA sites that tell you your ancestral makeup. Elena often thought about taking one of those tests. Her mother was Mexican and swore Elena’s biological father was too, but he’d died before she was born, and Mom always acted funny when Elena would ask, so who knew?
“Maybe I can help?” Raff asked. It was more of a plea than a question.
Elena kept her eyes on the screen. “Do you — or really, did Damien — know someone named Henry Thorpe?”
He thought about it. “Not that I can think of.”
“He’s twenty-four years old. From Chicago.”
“Chicago?” Raff thought some more. “I don’t think I know anyone with that name. And I never heard Damien mention him either. Why do you ask?”
Elena blew through his question. “Have you and Damien been to Chicago recently?”
“I went when I was a senior in high school. I don’t think Damien’s ever been.”
“How about the name Aaron Corval? Does that ring any bells?”
Raff petted the handlebar mustache with his right hand. “No, I don’t think so. Is he also from Chicago?”
“Connecticut. But he lives in the Bronx now.”
“Sorry, no. Can I ask why you’re asking?”
“It would be better right now if you could just answer my questions.”
“Well, I don’t recognize either name. I could search our customer database, if you’d like.”
“That would be great.”
Raff reached over her shoulder and started typing.
Nap said, “Can you print the full client list for us?”
“You think one of our clients...?”
“Just covering all bases,” Nap said.
“How do you spell Thorpe?” Raff asked Elena.
She suggested that he try it both ways — with the e and without the e. Nothing. Same with Aaron Corval.
“Who are these men?” Raff asked. There was an edge there now. “What do they have to do with Damien?”
“You said only you and Mr. Gorse used this IP and Wi-Fi?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Don’t ask me for the technical explanation,” she said, “but Henry Thorpe had contact with someone using this computer’s IP.”
Nap just listened.
“Meaning?” Raff said. There was more edge now.
“Meaning just that. Someone who used this computer communicated with Henry Thorpe.”
“So? This Thorpe guy could be an ink salesman for all I know.”
“He’s not.”
Elena stared at him hard.
“Damien didn’t keep secrets from me,” Raff said.
Didn’t. Finally the past tense.
“Maybe our computer was hacked or something.”
“That’s not what happened, Neil.”
“So what are you insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m asking.”
“Damien wouldn’t cheat on me.”
She hadn’t really been going there, but maybe she should. Maybe there was some kind of romantic connection here. Was Henry Thorpe gay? She hadn’t bothered to ask. Then again, who in this day and age cares?
And if that was the case — if Damien and Henry were lovers — how did Aaron Corval fit into this? Wasn’t Paige Greene his girlfriend? Could that be tied in somehow? Could there be some kind of romantic entanglement Elena hadn’t yet considered at the center of this?
She didn’t see how.
Nap tapped her on the shoulder. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
Elena got up from the chair. She put a hand on Raff’s shoulder. “Mr. Raff?”
He looked at her.
“I’m not insinuating anything. Really. I’m just trying to help find who did this.”
He nodded, his eyes down.
Nap headed out the back door. She followed him.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Aaron Corval.”
“What about him?”
“It isn’t hard to use Google,” he said. “He was murdered days ago.”
“That’s right.”
“So you want to tell me what’s going on?”
Chapter Eighteen
Simon’s car route back to Manhattan ran past the Corval Inn and Family Tree Farm.
He almost drove straight past it — what was the point, and he wanted to get back to the hospital — but then again, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He pulled into the lot and parked in the same spot he’d left earlier.
The inn was quiet. If the mourners had all been heading to a reception when Enid peeled off for her club, the reception was over. He looked for any familiar faces at all — anyone who’d been at the memorial service down by that brook — but the only person who looked familiar was the woman behind the desk with the tablecloth-checked blouse. She had another map of the grounds flattened on the desk and was showing a color-coordinated young couple that Simon would anachronistically call yuppies the “most arduous hiking trail on the property.”
The woman clearly spotted Simon waiting out of the corner of her eye, and she clearly wasn’t happy about it. Simon stood, bouncing on his toes, and glanced around. There was a staircase on the right. He debated going up it, but what good would that do? There were glass doors covered with lace behind him. They would lead to another room.
Maybe the reception was in there.
As he started toward them, he heard the woman behind the desk say, “Excuse me, that room is private.”
Simon didn’t stop. He reached the door, turned the knob, and pushed into the room.
There had indeed been a reception of some sort in here. Debris from finger sandwiches and crudités sat on a stained white tablecloth in the center of the room. An antique rolltop desk complete with those mail slots and tiny file drawers was to Simon’s right. Wiley Corval swiveled from the desk and rose.