Drained (22 page)

“I said no calls,” Brett answered.

“Um, Mr. Bailor?” a man asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s Tom from legal. Carrie just put me through to you.”

“Yeah, Tom. What can I do for you?”

“Well, my secretary just popped in my office and said that two of those FBI agents that served us subpoenas were in the building again.”

“Ah, dammit,” Brett said. “I completely forgot. I was supposed to get some information for them put together and sent over this morning. Let me call the agent I spoke with. I appreciate you giving me the heads up.”

“No problem,” Tom said.

Brett hung up, found the number for the agent, and dialed. He walked from the master bathroom to his home office and took a seat behind his desk.

“Agent Andrews,” a man answered.

“Hi. Brett Bailor. I have to apologize, I got everything set with my intern to call you and send you those documents this morning. I’m just finding out now that he didn’t.” That was a lie, but Brett figured it sounded believable enough.

“Okay, well, we’re actually here now with…” The agent asked someone what their name was again. “With Ben Miglin.”

“Oh, okay. Ben won’t have access to what you requested, though. Let me get your e-mail, and I’ll send you those transcripts personally.”

The agent gave it to him.

Brett took a pen and paper from the desk and wrote it down. “You should see that shortly. Anything else?”

“Actually, yes. One moment.”

Brett could hear him talking to someone but couldn’t make out what was being said.

“Okay, sorry about that,” the agent said. “We have some… I guess I don’t know how else to describe it other than ‘problems.’”

“Problems? Um, okay,” Brett said.

“Yeah, it seems that there was a virus that had come through to these victims’ electronic devices. The virus was distributed through your website’s messaging app.”

“Well, um… I mean, I guess that’s possible. Probably attached to a message or something.”

“Our tech guys explained it to me that it originated from the app, meaning it wasn’t included as an attachment.”

“Oh, that’s a bit more troubling,” Brett said. “Yet if someone can hack into your e-mail and social-media accounts, I guess they could probably figure out a way to hack into our messaging system. This is the first I’m hearing about it, though. I’m going to have to get some of my guys on it.”

“We’re really leaning toward the idea that all of these victims were preyed upon through your website. It’s really the only logical conclusion.”

“Um, I’d hate to think that is the case, but if that is what happened… I mean, I don’t know. However I can help you guys, I obviously will. I’m just not sure what I can do.”

“It would really help us if there was a way to get deleted profiles and messages. Even a date of deletion would help,” the agent said.

Brett let out a breath. “Yeah, like I said, we just don’t store that information. I kind of wish we did now. I tell you what—let me make a couple of calls to other people in the industry and see if they have any ideas. Maybe someone smarter than me can say something that will spark the lightbulb over my head.”

“I’d appreciate it,” the agent said.

“I’ll give you a call back in a bit.”

“Thanks.”

Brett hung up and tossed his phone onto the desk. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. He didn’t need anyone from his web-development unit talking with feds. They’d certainly tell the agents that old profiles were, in fact, retrievable. Brett picked his phone back up and dialed Tom in legal.

“Tom Mears.”

“It’s Brett. Those agents are now on the web-development floor doing who knows what. Find them and shoo them out of the building. Tell them to get warrants if they give you any issues.”

“Um, okay,” Tom said. “Can I ask why the sudden change of heart? I mean, it seemed like you wanted to go above and beyond, helping them yesterday.”

“Of course. If I’m there, it’s one thing. I’ll do what I can. But I’m not going to let them just come in and take up my team’s time with whatever they are doing, wandering around unattended and asking my staff questions.”

“Completely understandable. Need a call back?” Tom asked.

“No.”

“Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Tom.” Brett hung up.

Andrews clicked off from his phone call and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He scratched at the side of his short blond hair and looked at Ben Miglin, who sat at his desk, staring back at us.

“What can you tell us about closed or terminated accounts?” Andrews asked.

“What do you want to know?” Miglin asked.

“Just an overview on how they are handled from the moment they are closed or terminated.”

Miglin cleared his throat. “Well, general closed accounts—meaning closed by the user—get compiled into a batch. We send out an automated e-mail to them at the end of the month in which they were closed, with a survey. It asks why they left and invites them to come back.”

I had an immediate question but allowed him to continue.

“Terminated accounts are kept on file by the IP address so if the user tries to sign up again, they can get autodenied.”

“So there are records of both?” I asked.

He nodded. “Of course.”

I was confused because Bailor had said specifically that they didn’t keep that information.

“Is there a way to access the list of e-mails and names?” Andrews asked. “Can the accounts be reinstated?”

“Um, yeah, but it requires administrative access. If a user calls and their account was hacked or something, or maybe terminated by mistake, we obviously have to be able to look them up and get them reinstated. Also, if a user who canceled themselves decides to come back and use the site again, we have to be able to put everything back the way it was.”

“What about the messages sent and received through the messaging app?” I asked. “Do those come back as well?”

“Yeah, everything gets restored as it was,” Miglin said.

“Can you look up a name on an account for us and get it reinstated if it needs to be?” I asked. “We need to see messages from it.”

“Ah,” he said. “I think I should probably let someone with a bit more, um, authority I guess, make the call on doing that.”

“We have a subpoena for the information on the user,” Andrews said.

“Okay, um. Still, I’m really not in a position to be doing that kind of stuff. I’d need someone to give me the okay.”

“Understandable,” Andrews said. “Did you want to call a manager or something?”

“We don’t really have managers. Everyone on this floor reports directly to Mr. Bailor.”

The door at our back opened. A man dressed in a dark-gray suit and red tie stood before us in the doorway. His hair was dark and thin, his face weathered.

“Tom Mears. I’m the chief legal officer here at Classified OD. Can I help you gentlemen with something?”

I looked at Andrews. I knew immediately what the guy was there to do—make sure we didn’t get another word out of Ben Miglin.

“We’re conducting an investigation, and it appears our subpoenas weren’t sufficiently taken care of,” Andrews said.

“As far as I know, we provided you with that information yesterday. Do you have anything official I could look at that says they weren’t sufficiently fulfilled?” he asked.

Andrews didn’t respond.

“Do you have some paperwork for me or anything, for that matter, that gives you a legal right to be on the premises, questioning the staff?”

Andrews smirked. “We have a federal subpoena for information and believe that additional information was withheld.”

“Okay. Your belief doesn’t actually give you a right to question this man sitting here, so I’m going to ask you gentlemen to leave our business. When you have warrants, more subpoenas, or the legal right to question one of our employees, we’d be happy to accommodate you.”

Andrews cracked his neck from side to side and walked from the office. I followed. The attorney did his best security-guard routine to make sure we got on the elevator. We rode down in silence. The conversation that we were about to have wasn’t for the other elevator riders. We stepped from the elevator and rode the escalators down to the lobby. Andrews and I stepped outside and walked toward our car.

The streets of downtown were cool. I didn’t know if that was due to our proximity to Lake Michigan or the streets being in the shadows of the towering high-rises. I chalked it up to a combination of both.

“What a weasel,” Andrews said.

“The lawyer?” I asked.

“Yeah, I despise attorneys. That guy was about to give us exactly what we needed.”

We stopped and waited for the signal to change to cross the road.

I leaned against the streetlight pole and shrugged. “Which is exactly why the attorney showed up to stop him. And I’m guessing the attorney was sent by Bailor. What did he say on the phone?”

“Reiterated that they didn’t keep the information.”

“So he bullshitted you some more?”

“Yup. He’s on the phone telling me that it’s not possible, and two seconds later, the guy sitting in front of us tells me it is.”

The walk signal lit, and we crossed the street.

“Bailor is doing one of two things,” I said, “either trying to hide the fact that his business was used to murder women—which if that’s the case, he’s obstructing a murder investigation—or he’s the one killing them.”

“That’s a big presumption. Owner of a giant corporation by day, serial killer by night.”

“Not really. Take his job and money out of it. The guy has access to the system we think the women and our killer were using, he’s lying to us, and he’s the lead web developer, meaning he’s probably capable of creating the virus or knows somebody who could.”

“Well, the same could probably be said about anyone who works in the web-development division of the company.”

“Except two things. One, Bailor is lying to us. Two, something Kennedy Taylor’s sister said.”

“What’s that?”

“The guy Kennedy was talking to was older and had money. She mentioned a Ferrari. Bailor has money, and to a twenty-something-year-old woman, a forty-something-year-old man would qualify as older. Also, a third thing. He’s a suit-and-tie type, which is in line with the man who met with Rebecca for coffee.”

We entered the parking structure and walked to the car. Andrews stuck his key in the door to unlock it. “I get you,” he said. “What’s the move? Do we want to try to bring him in for questioning?”

I shook my head and opened the door. Andrews and I both got in.

“No. No bringing him in. He’ll show up with an entourage of attorneys, and we won’t get squat. You said he wasn’t in the office until Monday, huh?”

“That’s what they said, yeah.”

“See where he lives. Maybe we can catch him at home. My afternoon is free,” I said.

Andrews smirked, clicked a few buttons on his car’s computer’s keypad, and brought up Brett Bailor’s information on the screen. “Looks like he lives out in Lemont.”

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“About an hour from here.”

“Does he have a Ferrari registered to him?”

“One second.” Andrews clicked a few buttons on the car’s computer. “No. Just a Jeep.”

“Do you need to be back for anything?” I asked. “If you do, I can head out there solo or wait for Beth.”

“No. I don’t have anything other than this. We can head out there now if you want,” Andrews said.

“Point us there. I’m going to call Beth and leave her a message letting her know we are going that way.”

Andrews started the car and pulled from the parking structure. I dialed Beth, expecting to get her voice mail, but she picked up right away.

“Great minds think alike,” she said.

“Huh?” I asked.

“I was just about to call you. I just left Hilary Wormack’s house. I have her daughter’s computer in my hand.”

“Oh. Good. I figured I was going to get your voice mail. I wanted to let you know that we are driving out to Brett Bailor’s place.”

“For?”

“Everything he’s been feeding us about not being able to get information from canceled or terminated accounts is bullshit. One of his employees told us straight out that you could. This is right before we got asked to leave the building by the company’s attorney.”

“Interesting. Is he now a suspect?”

“Well, I’d like to go and have a chat with him. Andrews and I are just leaving downtown for his home. I guess he didn’t feel like showing for work today.”

“Where does Bailor live?” Beth asked.

I cupped the mouthpiece of the phone and looked at Andrews. “What town does he live in, again?”

“Lemont,” Andrews said.

I brought my cell phone back to my mouth. “Lemont. I think it’s about an hour from where we are now.”

“Lemont is literally two minutes away from where I’m at. Send me over the address. I’ll meet you guys there.”

“Okay. Don’t approach him until we get there.”

“Yeah, I’ll wait. No problem,” she said.

“We’ll see you in a bit.” I hung up.

After I got the address from the car’s computer and sent it over to Beth, I stuffed my phone back into my pocket. “She’s going to meet us there.”

Andrews nodded.

We entered the on-ramp for the freeway a few minutes later. The more the details from the investigation played in my mind, the more I thought of Bailor as a likely suspect. Rattling around in my head was a piece of information I’d absorbed somewhere, sometime, about CEOs having psychopathic tendencies and how their lack of empathy helped them in a corporate setting. My cell phone vibrated against my leg, breaking my train of thought. I pulled it out and looked at the screen—Beth was calling.

“Yeah?” I answered.

“I have a Ferrari in the driveway,” she said.

“No shit? Black?”

“Yup. I’m looking at it right now.”

“Okay. Does it look like he’s there?” I asked.

“The garage is open. I didn’t see him though.”

“All right. We’ll be there in what, forty minutes, Andrews?”

He looked at me. “A bit less.”

“Less than forty minutes, Beth,” I said.

“Okay,” she said.