I call it my street apartment. It’s in the East Hastings area. If you live in Vancouver, you know that “East Hastings” is a catchall phrase for drug addicts, discarded needles and the broken shells of homeless people pushing shopping carts loaded with all their possessions.
For all its flaws, this concentrated area of poverty has the vibrancy that comes with desperation for life. In the weeks after my father was arrested, I found a way to survive there by playing street chess. Sure, being rich has some benefits, but there’s nothing like trying to survive from day to day—or even hour to hour—to heighten all your senses.
I like returning to that life so I kept the lease for the apartment even after moving back to the Batcave to be close to Bentley. The interior has walls of cracked paint, carpet with stains whose origins are best left unexplored and light fixtures dotted with dead insects. With a pullout couch and a bathroom the size of a phone booth, it’s perfect.
To me, this grungy studio apartment on the Downtown Eastside represents freedom.
But I’m careful. Every time I leave, I prop a matchstick against the bottom of the door so I will know if anyone has broken in.
This was evening two after my meeting with Amanda Hill. Enough time for the bait to have been taken. I made my way to the apartment. As I prepared to unlock the door, I checked for the matchstick.
It was no longer propped in place.
Along with a small burst of adrenaline, I felt sadness. The peace and solitude I cherished in my little sanctuary was gone already.
I pushed the door open and resisted the temptation to look around. There were no obvious signs of a break-in. This was not your typical East Hastings crash- and-grab. Anyone with the motivation and the technology skills to trace me to this apartment was someone who would likely leave behind a spy camera. I had to assume that I would be under surveillance from the moment I stepped inside.
My first move was to go to the refrigerator and pull out a bag of carrots. I chomped away for a few minutes, then drank some water straight from the tap. I didn’t want to look like I was in a hurry to get to my computer.
When I finally sat down in front of it, I opened up a video chat and clicked on Deanna Steele’s email address.
When she answered, I noticed a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles poster behind her.
“How are you and Donatello doing?” I asked.
She caught the reference immediately and flashed me a big grin.
It looked good on her.
“Let me get right to it,” I said. “It worked. Amanda took the money.”
Deanna knew what this meant right away. Her father had been set up.
I’d expected her to look pleased. What I got, however, was much more alarming. Her face crumpled as tears dropped down her cheeks. She sobbed soundlessly. I didn’t interrupt.
“Thank you,” she finally said. “I felt like I’d lost my father. You gave him back to me.”
Wow. That felt good. Aware that I was probably being watched, though, I played it cool.
“Now what we have to do is make sure nothing gets in the way of the corporate merger,” I said. “You passed along your father’s passwords to the blackmailer, right?”
“Yes, but if the software backdoor didn’t work,” she said, “I’ve just destroyed his career.”
“I promise you,” I said. “Everything is perfect. The log-in password will take them to a mirror of your father’s hard drive with all the fake information we put in it.”
“And the real information?”
I held up a small keychain and the dangling USB stick. “It’s with me twenty-four/seven. No way are we trusting it anywhere in the Cloud. Any hacker as good as my brother and me would find a way to get there from your father’s computer. And we’re assuming the blackmailer has hired the best.”
“Really,” she said. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Let’s wait until the blackmailer takes the bait,” I said. “It will probably happen tonight, so I’m meeting with a lawyer to pull together the information we need. By noon the cops should be involved, and after that we can celebrate.”
“I like the sound of that,” she said. Her big smile was back.
“Cool,” I said. “And, um, thought I’d ask if you might want to meet me somewhere.”
I gave her the name and address of the boxing gym.
“To watch you work out?” She laughed. “Nice try. Muscles don’t impress me.”
“I’ll be there late,” I said, “in case you change your mind. I’ll leave the back door unlocked.”
She laughed again and waved goodbye. I did the same and ended our connection.
The conversation had gone as well as I had expected. Deanna deserved an Oscar for it.
And now the clock was ticking for the blackmailer.