The big man said nothing, but I saw his fingers twitch.
“Drop the knife,” I ordered. He didn’t move. “Drop it.” The knife clinked on the concrete stoop. “Good. Now empty your pockets.”
“Go to hell,” he growled.
“That’s original,” I said. “What’s next? Go screw yourself? Eat my shorts?” I pushed the muzzle of the Glock farther into his ear. My adrenaline was pumping hard and I was angry. I was afraid of what I might do. I shoved my hand into Fitchburg’s front pocket—the one containing whatever had been in the coffee mug. I hoped it wasn’t a hypodermic needle. My fingers closed around something small and smooth, like a decorative key chain.
I pulled my hand out and saw that it held a computer flash drive.
“What’s on this?” I asked.
“Nothin’.”
“Oh, come on, Norman. Really. You can do better than that. You could’ve said pictures of you and my sister or something. Anything.”
“Fuck you.”
“That may be the least original of all. You need some new material.” I slipped the thumb drive into my pocket. “Why’d you carve up Jonathan?” No answer. “Where’s Debbie?” No answer. “What’s her real name?” No answer. “Aw, now don’t be like that, Norm, or whatever your name is. Just because I criticized your material, don’t pout and clam up. Get back up on that horse.”
Fitchburg’s fist suddenly shot up. Christ, he was fast. I twisted my head—enough to save me from a broken nose, but not enough to avoid the blow altogether. His knuckles cracked into my cheek, staggering me backward onto my ass and blurring my vision for a second. Fitchburg scooped up his knife and lunged at me.
I squeezed the trigger of the Glock, my vision still fuzzy, my aim random. Fitchburg halted in his tracks, his left arm snapping back, turning him slightly. I had hit him. I blinked my eyes and steadied my hand. I’d gotten him on the outside of his left bicep. At that range, if it hadn’t hit bone, the bullet had probably passed right through and out the other side. Fitchburg grimaced and held the wound, blood leaking out between his fingers. The sight made me remember Steven Schumacher, who, I assumed, was at that moment behind us in the apartment, holding his own bleeding arm. He had probably called 911 by then. Good. The cops needed to have a conversation with Mr. Fitchburg.
“Don’t move,” I said, still sitting, pointing the gun at his head.
“You made a big mistake,” Fitchburg said through clenched teeth.
“I wanna talk to Debbie. Where is she?”
“You don’t get it. She’s gone. Debbie never existed.”
“Whoever she is, I wanna talk to her.”
“Gimme the hard drive, Garrity. Give it to me now and I’ll forget all about this.”
“Now that’s original. Much better. Very unexpected, considering I’m pointing the gun at you. The cops oughta be here any minute.”
“I doubt it.” Fitchburg raised the knife, but winced. The bullet wound must have hurt like hell. Good.
“Drop … the … knife,” I said deliberately. I figured that it was the same weapon used to slice and dice poor Jonathan Dennis. With eyes like hot coals, Fitchburg backed away, taking a step down the sidewalk to his waiting car. “Hold it!” I barked. “On the ground!”
“You’re gonna have to put me on the ground yourself and hold me there. Even with a hurt arm, I don’t think you can do it alone. Or you can shoot me dead. But I’m not stoppin’.”
He continued backing down the sidewalk. I realized that I couldn’t shoot him like that. My cop training prevented me from gunning someone down who wasn’t directly threatening me or someone else. If I wasn’t going to shoot him, then I needed to call for backup. He was right: he was too big and too fast for me to take down alone. I needed a taser and a couple of other guys. But I wasn’t a cop anymore. I was a PI. I was out there alone, on my ass and fuzzy-brained from a punch in the face. The only one I could call then was Jimmy.
Great.
Fitchburg didn’t say another word. He just slipped into his Impala and sped off, tires squealing around the first turn. I slowly pulled myself to my feet, feeling my bruised face and already regretting the shiner that was brewing. I shuffled back into the apartment.
“Schumacher?” I called. There was no reply. I walked farther into the apartment. Then I saw why Fitchburg had said that he doubted the cops were coming. Schumacher had opened a bedroom window and kicked out the screen. He had obviously climbed out and hauled ass away. Thanks, buddy.
My predicament suddenly became quite clear. I had just engaged in a violent confrontation in front of the apartment. I had shot Fitchburg in the arm. Somebody had probably reported that gunshot. Cops would be en route. It definitely wouldn’t help me stay out of jail to be caught shooting someone in front of the previous murder scene, while the guy who had fingered me fled bleeding out the window. That wasn’t a picture I wanted Joe Vincent to see.
I quickly exited the apartment and jumped back into my truck. In another moment I was gone. If anyone was watching me, I could have trouble. My physical description at the location, as well as the make and model of my Ford F-150, would be enough to send Joey right to my place with a pair of handcuffs.
In the distance I heard the sirens. I pressed my foot harder on the accelerator.
I drove straight to the A-Plus Investigations offices. However, when I tried to enter the office, the doorknob wouldn’t turn. Locked. Jimmy was probably out at Victor Madrigas’s high school, talking to his friends. Since most of the agency’s work came directly from Nate Hungerford’s law firm upstairs, there really wasn’t much need for a receptionist. So, when Jimmy was out, the place was locked. Maybe his father had a key. I wanted to get in and use one of the nonconfiscated computers to check out the thumb drive.
I made my way upstairs to the Hungerford, Reilly, and Osman law firm and strolled into the lobby. It was what you might expect from a high-powered downtown law firm. All the signifiers of power and wealth were on display: cherrywood furniture, marble floors, expensive art on the walls. But the main thing I noticed when I walked into the lobby was the crowd.
There were a dozen or so people crowded around Nate Hungerford, who stood strategically in front of a painting of a Florida wetland scene. A short, balding guy in an expensive suit stood next to Hungerford, smiling broadly. Two news crews pointed bright lights and video cameras at them both. I recognized at least one of the reporters from the local TV affiliates.
“Well, of course we’re pleased,” Nate Hungerford said, a big smile on his face. “On behalf of Mr. Lawrence and the entire Lawrence Company, we would like to commend the city commission on their vote yesterday. They showed great leadership and great vision for the future of Orlando.”
Reporters shouted questions at him. Nate pointed at one young woman—I think she was from the Orlando Sentinel—whom he called Glenda.
“Aren’t you concerned about the eminent-domain issues?” Glenda asked. “There are a lot of people affected by this decision.”
“Certainly we’re concerned,” Nate said, glancing at the balding guy and looking appropriately serious. “These are never easy choices. But the commission voted and the Lawrence Company is committed not just to following the letter of the law, but to making sure people are treated fairly. Everyone affected will be compensated more than fairly.”
I leaned over to a young guy in a suit standing nearby. He might have been a junior associate or a paralegal for the firm. He eyed the red bruise blossoming on my cheek.
“What’s all this about?” I asked.
“Don’t you read the paper?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
“We represent the Lawrence Company,” he said and paused, as if that explained everything. He nodded his head toward the short, balding guy. I blinked at him. “The city commission voted yesterday on that big Parramore redevelopment project. It’s a go and the Lawrence Company got the contract for planning and construction. A hundred and ten million dollars, baby.” The kid grinned. Definitely an associate. Only a lawyer at the firm would be that happy about the deal.
“Do you think Hungerford will be busy for a while?” I asked. Nate Hungerford was still holding court.
“I’d say he’ll be busy for the next five years.”
I nodded and wandered out of the office. I’d find a computer somewhere else. The cops had confiscated both the laptop that Jimmy had provided and the desktop computer in my apartment. But they hadn’t yet touched anything in Cam’s condo. And I knew exactly where she kept her laptop computer.
It was in her second bedroom, the one that currently served as a home office to support her job as a pharmaceutical sales rep. This was the bedroom that would soon be transformed into a nursery. I had a hard time envisioning Cam as a mother: the glamorous, black-clad blonde in the Porsche Boxster. But when I looked around her home office, with its stylish chrome desk and minimalist leather furniture, I was struck with a fully formed vision of oversized plush Disney characters piled in a crib and wallpaper borders featuring bunny rabbits. It was as different from the current incarnation of the room as you could get, yet I saw it all and knew without a doubt that it would come to pass.
I shook off the vision and found the laptop computer. A minute later I had booted it up and logged in. While the computer hummed to life, I examined the flash drive. Why hadn’t Steven Schumacher told the police about it after Jonathan was killed? Maybe he didn’t realize its significance. Maybe he didn’t want it in the cops’ hands for some reason. I needed another chat with Mr. Schumacher. Another visit to his girlfriend’s house was probably in order.
Whatever was on that little chunk of digital memory, it was hot enough to get someone killed. I considered calling Jim Dupree and turning it in. It just might be the evidence that would get Joe Vincent off my back. But I would be abdicating all control of my situation—what little I actually had—by turning it over at that point. Plus, I’d have to explain how I’d gotten it, and at the moment, that story could only hurt me. Joey V would use whatever I gave him to construct a case against me, not to clear me. Big Jim wouldn’t be able to protect me. No, the risky, but smarter, play was for me to figure out just what the hell was going on and then hand it all over to the cops in a tidy little package.
So, with the computer fired up, I slipped the cap off the hard drive and plugged it into the laptop’s USB port. Here we go … I heard a small beep as the computer recognized the new hardware. A message window popped up informing me that the system was searching for the proper program to use to read the files on the drive. It asked me what it should use. I selected to open a directory so that I could see the drive’s contents.
Then another, smaller, gray window popped up asking me the access password. Password? Hell if I knew. I typed “Jonathan” and clicked OK.
There was a beep and the password-entry box reappeared. Damn. I tried “Schumacher.” Same result. I then tried “Dennis,” “JDennis,” “SSchumacher,” and even “Carly” (Schumacher’s girlfriend’s name). None of them worked. I tried “Debbie,” “Watson,” “DWatson,” “Norm,” “Norman,” “Fitchburg,” “NFitchburg,” “Fitch,” and a half dozen other variations. It was hopeless. I had no idea what the password was. I was no computer codebreaker. I could barely check e-mail.
But I did know someone who could crack the password, a genuine hacker with more geek cred than a roomful of software engineers. He was also someone who wouldn’t be put off by the quasi-illegal nature of the mission. In fact, that would be his favorite part. The only trouble was that, to get to him, I needed Cam’s help. And Cam hated his guts.