“I believe she did say something about that.”
“He’s always on those sites where you can explore city streets. Would that be a problem if he lived here?”
She shook her head. “No. In fact, many of the residents have them. It keeps them in touch and connected and entertained.” She rolled her eyes. “Not always the kind of entertainment I would prefer.”
“Thomas has been known to fire off e-mails that have caused us a bit of grief later.” I filled her in.
“Well,” she said, “it happens. If someone were to do that here, we’d have to remove Internet privileges for a period of time. If it persisted, we’d have to cut them off. But most everyone here, they’re eager to please.”
She showed me around. The house was orderly and well maintained. In the kitchen, I found one resident loading a dishwasher while another sat at a table eating a jelly sandwich. There were two rooms sitting empty on the second floor, one that looked out to the street and the other overlooking the backyard.
“Views don’t matter a lot to Thomas,” I said. “You’d probably be best saving the better one for someone else.”
Each of the rooms was roughly twelve by twelve feet. There was a bed, a couple of chairs, and a desk. There were two bathrooms on each floor.
“You’ll want to bring him over,” she said, “to check things out.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, feeling anxious.
Another woman approached. She was wearing a cardigan that looked a couple of sizes too big, a peasant skirt, and a pair of those neon purple plastic sandals, Crocs. Her hair was long and frizzy, and she looked pretty riled.
She stood in front of the two of us and said to me, “Are you Ray Kilbride?”
“Yes,” I said, hesitantly.
She extended a hand. “I’m Darla Kurtz.”
Slowly, I accepted her hand and gave it a shake, all the while looking at my tour guide. She smiled sheepishly at me.
The new Darla Kurtz said to me, “I’m sorry. I got held up at a city hall meeting.” Then, to my guide, she said, “Barbara, you’ve been very naughty, again.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kurtz.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay.” Barbara turned to me and said, “I hope Thomas gets to come and stay here. He sounds really interesting.”
I got out of there about an hour later. The real Darla Kurtz was every bit as welcoming as the phony one, but she had more specific questions. She also wanted me to bring Thomas in for a visit.
I was getting into the car when my cell rang.
“Get this,” Julie said.
“What?”
“So I’ve been getting bounced all over the place at Whirl360. The place is in absolute chaos.”
I slammed the door and reached for the seat belt with my free hand. “So they have been hacked?”
“No, shit, not that. One of their top people got killed.”
“What? When?”
“Yesterday. Him and his wife.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Hang on, I made some notes. Okay, the guy’s name was Kyle Billings, and his wife’s name was Rochelle. They live in Oak Park, in Chicago. That’s where the company’s head office is. The wife’s sister was trying to get in touch with her last night, couldn’t get her or her husband on the phone, no answer at the house but both cars were there. So they called the police, and they were both in the basement. Dead.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Julie said. “Guess what Billings did at Whirl360?”
“Tell me.”
“He’s the guy who wrote the program that automatically blurs faces and license plates and all that kind of thing.”
I was about to put the key into the ignition and stopped. “Jesus.”
“And this other stuff, I just got this off the Chicago Tribune Web site. They’re attributing this to unnamed sources in the police department. How they died.”
“Go on.”
“Okay, so Billings was stabbed. Something very long and pointed, like an ice pick, maybe. But the wife—are you sitting down?”
“Julie, for Christ’s sake, just tell me.”
“She was suffocated, Ray. Someone put a bag over her head.”
FORTY-FIVE
LEWIS Blocker went online and read everything he could find about Kathleen Ford and her new Web site. She had a lot of money to put behind it, and was said to be attracting big names to write for it. She’d lured a prominent columnist from the New York Times. Some well-known talking heads from Fox and MSNBC had agreed to be regular contributors. There’d be plenty of celebrity gossip. In these respects, it was much like the site it was taking on. But Kathleen Ford was going to offer a few new things, too. She’d attracted two or three novelists—Stephen King and John Grisham were among those rumored to have been approached—who would write serially for it. Every week, a new installment, just like in the old Victorian newspapers. There was even some mention of an animated political cartoon, but there was no hint as to who might produce it.
Lewis took special note of that.
He wrote down a few questions, thought about how he was going to play this, and then found a contact number for the public relations department of Kathleen Ford’s enterprise.
He was put in touch with a woman named Florence Highgold. Lewis couldn’t believe it was a real name, but she did actually work there, so what the hell. Lewis explained that he was doing a freelance business piece on Ford’s new Web site for the Wall Street Journal. He was particularly interested in the kind of talent pool Ford was intending to draw from.
“This whole serialized novel thing,” Lewis said. “I’d heard that the guy who wrote The Da Vinci Code had been talked into writing something.”
Florence laughed. “Even with the resources Ms. Ford has, I’m not sure she could afford him.”
“Well, if she can afford King and Grisham—”
“We’re not confirming that either of those men have in fact been commissioned to do anything for the Web site,” Florence said.
Lewis asked her about the launch date for the site, how many visits they expected it to receive. Would it be a site you had to pay to read? And if not, would all their income be derived from advertising?
He made it sound like an afterthought when he asked, “And what about artists? Does a site like that need a lot of illustrators?”
“Well, you certainly need Web artists to come up with a concept for the site,” Florence said. “You need a distinctive graphic design. But once you have that up and running, it kind of runs itself.”
“So it’s not like you’d have contributing artists in the way you would contributing writers.”
“That’s not entirely true. We’ve already said we’d like to do animated political cartoons.”
“You have someone for that?”
“We do,” Florence said. “Are you familiar with Ray Kilbride’s work?”
Even as she said the name, Lewis was tapping it into a search engine. When the results popped up, he hit Images.
The screen filled with dozens of postage-stamp-sized pictures.
“Yeah, I believe I have,” Lewis said. He clicked on an illustration of Newt Gingrich that had appeared in a Chicago magazine, credited to Ray Kilbride. “He did that Gingrich drawing, didn’t he?”
“He may have. He’s done so many,” Florence said.
Lewis clicked again and up came a caricature of noted New York crime boss Carlo Vachon, sticking up the Statue of Liberty. “And I remember one he did of that mob guy.”
“Maybe,” Florence said. “Like I said, he’s got a pretty comprehensive portfolio.”
“Uh-huh,” Lewis said, clicking to a second full page of images.
One of them was not an illustration, but a photograph. He clicked on it. Up popped a photo of a man leaning over a drafting table, sleeves rolled up, an airbrush in his hand, smiling at the camera.
The photograph was from an art magazine’s
Web site, and accompanied a short article about Ray Kilbride, who lived in Burlington, Vermont.
“Are you there?” Florence said.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Lewis said, holding alongside his computer monitor the printout he’d been showing around the art store, comparing the two faces.
“Was there anything else you needed to know?” she asked.
“No, I think I’ve found the answer to my question,” Lewis said.
“Do you know when the article will be running in the Journal?” Florence asked. “Because Ms. Ford will want to—”
Lewis ended the call, then went to the online phone directories. He found a listing for an R Kilbride in Burlington.
He picked up the phone again, dialed Howard.
“Yes, Lewis,” Howard said.
“Found him,” Lewis said.
FORTY-SIX
OCTAVIO Famosa couldn’t decide what to do.
Should he tell Allison Fitch—and that was how he thought of her now, not as Adele Farmer—he had been in touch with her mother in Ohio? That Doris Fitch would be flying in today to be reunited with her? Or should he say nothing, and let her be surprised?
Even though he suspected she would be angry with him, he believed that, ultimately, she would be grateful. Yes, he had snooped about in her purse, and called her mother behind her back. But it was often stubbornness and pride that kept family members apart, even when they desperately wanted to be together. Pride was a terrible thing, Octavio mused. It stood in the way of so much happiness.
One reason he didn’t want to tell her was that he wanted to see the look on Allison’s face when her mother arrived at the hotel. Octavio had seen many shows on television, especially on Oprah, where people who had not seen one another in years were reunited. He loved to see the people’s expressions when a long-lost son or daughter walked onstage to embrace them.
Octavio had to admit that he was a bit of a sentimentalist.
As much as he wanted to keep what he had done a secret from Allison, he also felt that as her friend, he had to be honest with her. In the short time they had worked together they had developed a trusting relationship. They talked to each other. Octavio had bared his heart to her, and Allison had done the same with him, albeit changing a few of the details so as not to reveal who she really was.
She was a girl in trouble—he knew that. He’d sensed it from the moment he’d met her. And a girl in trouble needed her mother.
When Allison woke the next morning, and emerged from the back room into the office, still wiping the sleep from her eyes, he considered telling her right then. But he lost his nerve. As she did every morning, Allison used the bathroom adjoining the office to have a shower and get dressed. By eight thirty, she was ready for work.
It had not been that busy a night. Only eight units had been rented, and of those, only three had checked out so far. The people who stayed here, if they did happen to spend the entire night, were not generally inclined to vacate their rooms early. They drank and did drugs and had sex until the middle of the night, then slept in until ten or eleven or noon, which was checkout time. If they slept in past that, Octavio had to bang on their door to wake them because he knew, especially with repeat customers, that they did not want to have to pay for a second night.
“Where should I start?” Allison asked.
“Three, nine, and eleven are ready for you,” Octavio said.
“Okay.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I guess.”
“That’s good,” Octavio said. “It looks like it’s going to be a very nice day. No rain in the forecast.”
Allison didn’t say anything. She never cared whether it rained or not. Octavio believed that for this child, it was raining every day, even when there were no clouds in the sky.
“Okay, so, I guess I’ll get started,” she said.
“Some breakfast? You are going to have some breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
What a pitiful girl she was. Octavio wanted to tell her, to bring some sunshine into her life.
About an hour later, he worked up his nerve.
He found her cleaning the bathroom in unit nine. She was on her knees, cleaning the toilet, when he came into the room.
“Adele?” he said. He almost called her Allison.
“Yeah?” she said, looking at him through the bathroom door, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.
“I need to talk to you for a minute.”
“Go ahead,” she said, squirting some cleanser onto the floor.
“No, you must stop for a second.”
She put down the cleanser and a sponge she had in her other hand and stood up. She came into the room and stood by the television.
“Am I fired?” she said. There was no sadness in her voice. Just resignation.
“No, you are not fired. You are a good employee. I would not fire you. Although…” he said, his voice trailing off. “It’s possible you may not want to stay.”
“What’s going on?”
“I need to tell you, first of all, that anything I did was with your best interests at heart.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been very concerned about…about how sad you are.”
“Octavio, what have you done?”
He looked down at the stained and tattered carpet. “Last night, when you were sleeping, I went into your room.”
“You what?” Allison’s eyes were wide and accusing.
“It is not what you think!” Octavio said, holding up his hands defensively. “I was a total gentleman. But…but I looked in your purse and—”
“You were in my purse?”
“Just listen to me, okay? Let me tell you everything. I found the letter. A letter from your mother.”
“Oh my God,” Allison said.
“And I know that you are not really Adele Farmer, but that is okay with me. I am not judging you at—”
“How could you do that? How dare you go into my things?!” Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing had grown rapid.
“Wait, wait!” Octavio said, now thinking maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea at all. But he had to tell her everything now. She had to know. “I called her.”
Allison stared at him, blinked. “What?”
“I called your mother last night. I told her you were here, that you were okay. Allison, Allison, please, she was…she was ecstatic. She was so happy to know you are okay, that you are alive.”
“No,” Allison whispered, disbelieving.
“She is coming,” Octavio said. “She is flying down here to see you. She loves you so much! She will help you! Whatever trouble you—”
Allison shoved him out of her way as she ran to the door.
Octavio shouted after her, “I’m so sorry! I am sorry!”
She didn’t know how much time she had. Maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t been tapping her mother’s phone. But she had to assume that they were. And if they were, and if Octavio had spoken to her mother the night before, after she’d gone to sleep—
Plenty of time to send someone to Florida.
“No no no no no,” she said under her breath as she ran for the office. She would grab what few clothes she had, stuff them into her backpack, and get the hell out of there. She didn’t know where she’d go. It didn’t really matter. All she knew was that she had to get away from this place.
Right now.
She ran into the office, threw open the door to the back room. She dropped to her knees to pull her purse and backpack out from under the rollaway bed.
Felt a sudden, very sharp pain in her side.
BY the time Doris Fitch arrived that afternoon, the hotel parking lot was cordoned off with yellow police tape.
FORTY-SEVEN
JULIE met me at the house. She was standing by her car as I was pulling into the driveway.
“Tell me again,” I said as I got out.
She repea
ted what she had told me on the phone. That a Whirl360 employee named Kyle Billings, and his wife, had been murdered in their home. The woman had been suffocated with a bag, and I couldn’t help but think of the similarity between that and what Thomas had found on the Internet.
I also couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Billings was the person who created the program that obscured faces on Whirl360.
“Someone like that could have changed that image,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Julie. “That’s kind of what I was thinking.”
“I don’t know what the hell to do,” I said. “You didn’t tell Thomas any of this, did you?”
She shook her head. “Hell, no. I don’t even know if he knows I’m out here. I think this news might get him pretty agitated.”
“I’m pretty agitated,” I said. “You find out anything else?”
“I’m going to make some calls about Allison Fitch. See if she’s still missing.”
“Okay.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “You know you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to get mixed up in whatever the hell this is.”
“Oh, okay,” she deadpanned. “Guess I’ll be off, then. Give me a call sometime.”
I smiled. “Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t know. ’Cause it’s fun?”
I laughed. “Maybe for you. I don’t need this. That your only reason?”
She shrugged. “I kinda like you. I figure, I keep helping out, shit keeps happening, it builds this sexual tension thing we have going.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. Maybe, one of these times we start getting hot and heavy, we’ll actually consummate the event.”
“Consummate,” I said. “I always thought that sounded like soup.”
She smiled. “I like you, Ray. And I like your brother, too. I like helping you out. And I have to tell ya, if Thomas really has seen something online, it’s one hell of a story.”
“So you’re using me,” I said.
“Yes, yes, I am,” she said. “I’m trying to exploit you sexually, and professionally.”