“Aren’t you a little old for that?” she asks with a smirk.
“Actually, I’m a ranked player. I want to play now but I guess I need a password to use this computer,” I say. “Do you know it?”
“Sure.”
“Will you share it?”
“Nope.”
I wish I had something I could hold overHailey’shead. An ounce of weed hidden under her bed, maybe. Some sexting I spotted on her phone. But no. I’ve got nothing yet.
“Tell ya what,” I say. “How about you just type it in, and I won’t look. Promise.”
She thinks about this for a moment. It could go either way.
“Fine,” she says. I get up from the chair and she sits down and types. I look away, out the window, keeping my word. When she gets up, Ben’s desktop screen is in full view. Now it’smyturn to lick my lips.
“Thanks,” I say. I start typing, pretending I’m downloading the game. She’s still there watching me. I know I’m on thin ice here, but I’m feeling smug and a little brazen.
“You want to see my kill stats?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re weird,” she says.
“That’s true,” I say. “But it sure beats being normal.”
Once she’s gone, I scan the files. Some names are in English—Roof, Receipts, Bios.Some are in Spanish—Fuego,Empezar. (Ben speaks Spanish? Metcalf didn’t mention that.) Some are just letters—JJ to REV, C&L, BJK.Are they artists? Code names? Hard to say. Any of them could be hiding the information Metcalf is looking for. But there’s no time to wade through it all, so I insert a flash drive and copy everything.
Let the FBI do its own research. My job is just to steal it.
CHAPTER 24
IT TAKES A LOT to tear Alan Metcalf away from his beloved daily corned beef and Swiss on rye. Today he had to stop eating and sign for a FedEx delivery. He grumbled at the interruption. But once he came back, the corned beef was history.
Now he pushes the sandwich wrapper to a corner of his desk and stares at the just delivered two-inch flash drive with what can only be described as glee. There it is: a small piece of software that has the power to change… well, the rest of his life. If he plays his cards right.
Then he hears an odd beep. At first he thinks it’s coming from outside, a truck backing up. He looks out his window. If his office were thirty stories higher, he wouldhave a spectacular view of the Chrysler Building, but from his third-floor window, he can see only the base of it. He checks the traffic below. There’s no truck, no traffic tie-up, and nobody is double-parked. Yet the beep is persistent.
Then he realizes the beep is an incoming text. Not on his regular burner phone—it’s on a different one, one he’s never used before. One of many sitting in his desk’s bottom drawer. He’s been told to always keep a few turned on and fully charged, just in case.
He rummages through the drawer till he locates the cell that’s beeping. Sure enough:
Hi from Heather.
Heather. Now, why would a grown man decide to use the name Heather, even on a pay-as-you-go burner phone? Pretty strange. Then again, all his dealings with “Heather” have been strange. Nighttime meetings in deserted places. A bunch of burner phones he’s allowed to use only once and then has to discard. Oh, well. No time to think about that now.
Heather asks:What’s up?
The timing is perfect. Metcalf has news to share. He wonders if he should answer in the same breezy, dopey teenage tone as Heather.Got it. I’m, like, excited. YAAASSSS!
No. Not a good idea. Kind of stupid, he decides. For spite, he responds like a grown-up:It came. Lots to go through. Will be in touch.
If Heather is disappointed or impatient, he is wise enough not to show it. He signs off with a simpleOkay. I’m chill.
Annoying man,Metcalf thinks. Not for the first time. Having to deal with a superior who is so, so… He searches for the right word and finally settles oninferior. For a split second, he lets himself be angry and frustrated at the way things have worked out.
Then he realizes it will do him no good. He’s got to go with the flow. And right now, the flow begins and ends with this guy.
Even though Metcalf hates his guts.
