Dysart shrugged. “No problem.”
“Now how do I find this guy?”
Dysart picked up the envelope that had been sitting on the dashboard.
“There’s a picture of Rob and my niece, Lesley,” Dysart said, “along with his home address and the address of Lesley’s apartment. Rob also has a good friend named Tim Whitlock who works at the bank. His address is there too. You should be able to pick up Rob’s trail at one of those places. But—” Dysart raised a finger in warning. “—I don’t want Lesley involved in any way.”
Landry pulled out the photograph.
“Of course,” he said as he looked at the faces.
Rob paid the cabbie, and then trudged up the walkway toward the front door of his apartment building. He had never felt so spent in his entire life. His back ached from sleeping on a steel cot for the past two nights. His stomach felt like a dry hole. All of which was minor compared with the storm buzzing in his head. He wanted a hot shower and to escape into a long sleep. Maybe after that he would see things more clearly.
A man struggled up from where he had been sitting with his back against the wall of the building.
“You’re him, ain’tcha?” the man said to Rob.
Rob had no way of knowing the man’s name was Larry or that he was a problem gambler, but Rob could tell the man was drunk from the difficulty he had in achieving and maintaining an upright position. He also seemed to have received quite a beating recently. The bruises on Larry’s face were tinged with yellow around the edges.
Larry staggered over to the walkway and planted himself in Rob’s path.
“I seen you on TV,” Larry said, “and then looked you up in the phone book.”
From the self-satisfied pride on Larry’s face, it was as if he was announcing a major scientific breakthrough.
“Do I know you?” Rob said.
Larry lurched a half step closer.
“She left me,” he said. “Soon as I came home and told her it was all gone. She just packed and went. I couldn’t say nothin’ to stop her.”
“Look I don’t—”
“It’s your fault. You stole the money out of my bank account.”
The man’s eyes blazed with fury.
“I didn’t steal anything,” Rob said.
Rob realized quickly there was little use in trying to explain matters. Instead he decided to duck the looping punch Larry aimed at the side of his head. Rob had little trouble in doing so. He had plenty of warning because of the considerable balancing act Larry had to pull off so he could remain standing while he swung his arm.
Rob moved to one side and made for the door but Larry managed to recover. He caught up with Rob and pushed him away from the door.
“You owe me eight hundred and twenty-three bucks,” Larry said.
Rob was struck with an insane urge to laugh at the guy. He managed to stifle it.
“Have you gone in to the bank?” Rob said. “They can fix most people’s accounts, especially if you have your receipts.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
Rob thought it best not to answer that one.
“I went in,” Larry said. “They didn’t do nothin’ for me.”
“Well neither can I.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Look pal, it’s been a long day. Just get out of my face and let me by.”
Larry grabbed the front of Rob’s shirt with both hands.
“I want my money and I want it right now,” Larry said.
That did it. All the frustrations and indignities of the last two days boiled over. Rob broke the grip on his shirt by pistoning his hands up between the other guy’s arms, then pushed the man up against the brick building.
“Leave me alone,” Rob shouted.
Larry drove one knee into Rob’s gut, which partially knocked the wind out of him. Then Larry lashed out with another haymaker and this one found its mark. Rob let go of Larry and staggered back a couple of steps, trying to clear his head.
“How about that, huh?” Larry said, advancing on Rob once more. “Teach you to steal from me.”
Larry swung again, but now that he was away from the building he was considerably less steady on his feet. Rob was able to dodge the blow. He grabbed the guy’s shoulders and pushed him so the back of Larry’s head hit hard against the brick wall. Larry slumped to the ground. Rob stood over the prone figure for a moment to see if he was game for more, but Larry only rolled on his side and moaned.
Rob opened the security door and hurried up the stairs. Once he was on the first landing and out of sight of the lobby, he stopped and sat down on the stairs. His entire body trembled from the shock of what had just happened. He decided to stay away from his apartment as much as possible for a while. The next genius to come looking for him might not be as drunk as this one. Or for that matter, this guy could come back with friends. Or a gun.
Or both.
Rob dragged himself up the rest of the stairs. As he turned the key to open his apartment door, he wondered if he should pack a few things and find somewhere else to stay for a while. He walked inside to find dried pizza and the rest of the dinner mess on the dining room table. The two teddy bears still sat at their places, providing mute testimony to the futility of his evening with Lesley.
The mess wasn’t confined to the dining area. Displaced furniture, drawers left slightly ajar and stray piles of his belongings greeted him as he walked through the apartment. His computer was gone, along with the external hard drive that normally sat on his desk.
He pulled open a few desk drawers and found them empty except for stray pens and paper clips. All of the paper was gone — old bills, receipts, tax returns, everything. The FBI search team had been thorough, if not particularly conscientious about straightening up.
Rob felt numb. The invasion of his home was one more in a seemingly endless series of blows to his spirit. He wanted more than anything to wake up and realize the whole thing was a dream.
But that wasn’t going to happen. This was no game. His future was being shredded to pieces and there was nothing he could do about it.
Or was there?
After all, he hadn’t really tried, had he? Other than whining that he was innocent, Rob had done nothing to help himself. Of course there had been little he could do while he was in jail. But now he was out. He walked over to the living room window and stared out, his mouth twisted, deep in thought.
He had no alibi, none that worked anyway. The only way to clear himself seemed to be to uncover the real culprits. But if the FBI had aimed their high-powered abilities at the situation and failed to come up with the right answer, how could he expect to do any better? The feds had deep pockets, databases of known criminals — plenty of resources to throw at the problem. Rob was just one guy, a guy who was prohibited from approaching the scene of the crime at that. What could he possibly bring to the table that the FBI had not already tried?
The answer came back so suddenly that Rob blinked in astonishment. He had one advantage over everyone else when it came to figuring out who vandalized the computers at the First Malden Bank. Rob was the only one who knew—knew with absolute certainty — that someone else was responsible.
Everyone else thought Rob had done it. The evidence — the planted evidence, Rob corrected himself — had placed him squarely under Steeves’ microscope so quickly that Rob was willing to bet nobody else had received much attention.
And the other potential suspects were people Rob worked with. One of the factors that had helped convince everyone of Rob’s guilt was the overwhelming probability that only someone familiar with the system could be the saboteur. Rob was that type of someone, but so were his co-workers.