Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 01 - Last Call (11 page)

Seemed my whole computer had turned against me.

I plucked out the drive. “Screw you, too.”

I sat with the flash drive squeezed in one hand and stared at a blank space on the wall. Wall-staring might not look like work, but I used to bill clients for the time. Some of my best ideas came from glaring at a few square inches of drywall or plaster.

A name popped into my head almost immediately. If anyone knew how to access the files on the flash drive without a password, it was Devon Whitegard.

I grabbed my coat and headed out to talk to an old friend.

I leaned over Devon’s shoulder to peek at his computer screen and watched the same password box pop up for him.

“That’s just what I got.”

Devon curled up his shoulders. He blew his devil’s lock out of his face. “Dude, I need some space.”

I backed off. “Can you get at the files?”

Devon spun in his office chair to face me. The glow from the computer screen illuminated him from behind, turning him into a shadow. For some reason he insisted that the lights in his room remain off. Judging from his bugged out eyes, I got the impression the computer screen was the only light he ever saw. Even during the day, very little light would reach this room since it occupied a corner of his parents’ basement.

Not only had Devon never left Hawthorne, he had never left home. When I arrived at the house it was like old times. His mother answered the door, told me where to find Devon in the basement, and offered to warm up some frozen mini pizzas.

I had passed on the mini pizzas.

“Do I look like an amateur to you?” Devon asked.

I glanced around his room. Memorabilia from when the Detroit Tigers last won the world series in 1984 sat on shelves next to action figures or hung on the walls next posters of supermodels from the 80s who now probably modeled support hose, rubber soled shoes, and dentures. He had two other desks besides the one his computer sat on, their surfaces littered with computer parts and knots of electrical cords.

“You’re all pro, Devon.”

He jerked his head and gave me a “duh” look, then twirled back to his computer and started banging on the keys.

“Just cause I still live at home don’t mean I’m a total loser.” He stopped typing for a heartbeat. “I make six figures with my little business running out of here. And no fucking overhead.”

“And all you can eat mini frozen pizzas.”

“Don’t knock it.”

“Hey, Dev. If you’re pulling six figures, why go through the trouble of auditioning for that singing show just to get a free trip to Hollywood?”

He muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I’m trying to concentrate here.”

I put up my hands. “My bad.”

While he worked, I took down a Darth Vader action figure from a shelf. Poor Darth looked a little rough around the edges, missing his cape and light saber. I wondered if Devon still played with him. With a six-figure income, you’d think he’d be able to buy a whole case of new Darth Vaders.

“Shee-it,” Devon said and slapped his palm down on his desk.

I set Darth Vader back on his shelf. “Can’t do it?”

“No, somebody just stole my sword of excellence.”

“You’re what?” I peered at the computer screen and saw an elf hacking away with an axe at something big and green. “What the hell is that?”

“You’ve never played this game? It’s a MMORPG. It rocks! Except when some bastard says he’s in your clan then steals your fucking sword of excellence.”

“What the hell is an MMORPG, and what the hell does it have to do with the flash drive I gave you?”

“Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game.” Devon shook his head. “Where’ve you been?”

“Waiting for you to help me. I haven’t got time for this, Devon. Seriously.”

He tapped a button, and his game blinked off. He folded his arms and turned to me. “What’s this about anyway?”

“It’s private.”

He laughed. “So what the hell are you doing back here?”

“I need access to what’s on that drive. I’m sorry I don’t have time for frozen pizza and video games, but this is really important.”

“Excuse my life for being so fucking trivial, dude.”

I took a deep breath before I said something else insensitive. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, that’s not what I meant either, ass crunch. I was asking you what the hell you were doing back in Hawthorne. You know? Making conversation.”

“I don’t have time for conversation.”

He sucked on his teeth, jerked his head to toss his devil’s lock off his face. “You haven’t changed one bit since high school.”

“Now this is about high school?”

“No, man, it’s about your attitude. Even when you’d hang out with us, the big school losers, it was like you thought you were better than us.”

I tried to compare my high school experience with the one Devon described. They didn’t mesh. The reason I hung out with guys like Devon and Tom—the so-called nerds—was because I felt I was one of them. I never got along with the popular kids. I didn’t belong with them.

“That isn’t true,” I said.

He waved a hand. “Forget it, right? You’re too damn busy to give a singing lesson, but loser Devon has all the time in the world to play your personal hacker.”

“It isn’t like that.”

He blew a raspberry, fluttering his devil’s lock away from his face. “You know what? Fuck this.” He crossed his arms. “You want me to hack this, you gotta give me a singing lesson.”

I massaged my temples. The lack of light started a headache behind my eyes. “Right now?”

“No, not right now. But you have to promise to give me one. And not like next year or something. Sometime this week.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Hey, Rid? I’m a busy man. You want me to do this or not?”

My palms started sweating. My stomach felt like an overcrowded fishbowl. Symptoms of stage-fright, as if I was about to step into a spotlight right there.

“Isn’t there anything else? I could pay you.”

He leaned back in his chair with a crooked smirk. “Six figures, remember?”

“Why, Dev? Why do you want to go on that silly show?”

“Why do you want to crack this flash drive?”

I closed my eyes, counted down from three. “I told you, it’s personal.”

“So is this.”

“Fine.” I held out my hand. “Give the damn thing back.”

His buggy eyes bugged out more. “You serious?”

“I can’t sing. I just can’t.”

“You are severely traumatized,” he said and laughed.

“I never expected you to understand. You don’t want to do this for me, just hand it back.”

Devon snorted and swung back to his keyboard. “Whatever, dude.” He punched a sequence of keys and leaned back. “It’s already done.”

“Already… When?”

“Right before I lost my sword of excellence.” He rolled away from the desk. “Have a gander if you want, but it’s cracked for good, so you can access it on any PC now.”

I moved in and took control of the mouse. A list of nearly twenty files filled the window displaying the flash drive’s contents, all them word-processing documents. I scanned the file titles, most of them cryptic and incomprehensible. Then one caught my attention and sent a shiver down my spine.

MOBVIOLENCE03.

It almost seemed too easy. I wasn’t aware of any mob presence in Hawthorne. But I couldn’t fight the jolt I got from finding a possible clue. Maybe Doug had uncovered something that got him into trouble. I clicked open the file and found about twenty single-spaced pages of notes written in a journal format, each entry headed by a date in bold font. The date on the first entry was from seven years ago. I scrolled down to the final page in the document. The last entry was dated six and a half years ago.

I returned to the beginning of the document and started reading, stopped after the first paragraph. The notes dealt with mob violence as depicted in films.

The thrill drained out of me as quick as a blown circuit.

“Not what you were looking for?” Devon asked.

The other file titles didn’t look half as hopeful.

GR8PRT.

BMB.

TWRP.

DEADANI.

And others that looked more like personalized license plates than computer files. Of course, I checked the DEADANI file. A quick reading of the first short entry told me it was a story about poachers up state. Scrolling down a couple entries, I learned Doug had single handedly exposed a group of hunters killing all sorts of animals off season. But the dates on the opening entries, like the MOBVIOLENCE03 file, were nearly seven years old.

The file titled BMB looked like BOMB to me. I opened the document, found another dated entry from just over six years ago. What I read had nothing to do with bombs, but was no less disturbing. BMB was Doug’s shorthand for black market baby. The first couple entries detailed his investigation into an illegal adoption ring in Port Huron, which was on the other side of the state.

Frustrated, I returned to the top of the file list and opened each one in turn to check the date of the first entry and read a few lines. Every set of notes started at least six years ago. But according to Autumn, Doug had moved to Hawthorne and started working at the high school five years ago, and they married a year later. All these stories were from his old journalism days.

“Why would you keep a bunch of old files on a flash drive attached to your key chain, yet have next to nothing on your home computer?”

“Are you asking me?”

I pulled at my hair. “Another dead end for the great detective. Can you believe I used to make a living at this?”

“Are you asking me?”

“It wasn’t that long ago, either. A year, maybe, since my last case, before I got yanked back to Hawthorne.” I spun on Devon and jabbed a finger at him. “Why the hell am I still here?”

“So you are asking me?”

I shook my head. “Sorry. Just venting.”

Devon rolled his chair back into place. “I still think you owe me a singing lesson.”

His mention of singing made me think of the
High Note
. I wondered if Sheila would go ahead and open the bar without me. I never officially said I wasn’t going to make it tonight, though I think it was clear nonetheless.

I scanned the room for a clock and found the time on the chest of a foot-tall R2-D2 perched on Devon’s nightstand. According to R2 it was almost opening time.

“I appreciate your help, Dev.”

His focus was locked on the computer screen. He waved a hand. “Sure. I got to get back to this.”

From his computer speakers came a high-pitched battle cry and the ring of clashing swords.

“I’m sorry about the lessons. But if there is anything else you need—”

“Hey, Rid,” Devon said, still mesmerized by his monitor. “Take your guilt to someone who cares.”

Devon’s Mom caught me on the way out, wearing a worried frown.

“Did you and Devon have a disagreement?”

“No, ma’am. Thank you for having me.”

“Any time, Ridley.” She wiped her hands with a red and white checkered dishtowel. “I’m terribly sorry about your parents.”

I never knew what to say to this. “Thank you” didn’t sound right. Thanks for being sorry? Usually, I answered with a sigh, shrug, and nod, like saying,
Yep, that’s the way life goes.
Which was bullshit. For most people life’s obstacles did not include the murder of their parents.

This time, I just said what I felt.

“Me too.”

Chapter 9

Mrs. Whitegard got me thinking about my parents, which got me thinking about the
High Note
. The next thing I knew, I was pulling into the parking lot. I had to circle the lot three times before a space opened up.

That was a switch.

Inside, I could barely move beyond the front door. To get to the bar, I had to squeeze through a group of girls in short skirts and halter tops sipping cosmopolitans. One of them smiled at me. I was pretty sure my tongue hung out, maybe with a little drool. When I tried to say something suave, I walked into a guy on his way toward the stage.

The girls laughed.

I moved on, cheeks burning.

I didn’t find Sheila behind the bar like I expected. Instead, my old bartender, Paul Dimico, poured two separate shots at the same time, then flipped the bottles in the air and caught them behind his back.

On stage, a man sang “Chances Are” with most the notes actually on key.

I glanced around, dazed.

Had I stepped into the wrong karaoke bar?

Paul whizzed right by me on his way to a customer. I tried to flag him, shouted his name. My voice blended with the dozens of others around me, all buried under the music.

When he zoomed my way again, I reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

“Wait your turn,” he snapped without looking.

“Paul! It’s Ridley.”

Paul jerked back, studied me for a second, and frowned.

“What do you want?”

Not the reaction I’d expected. “What do I want? Where the hell have you been?”

“Sheila says you gave up this place.”

I sputtered. “That’s still being decided.”

“Well you let me know if you’re coming back so I can start looking for another job.”