Promise You Won't Tell? (12 page)

“Perfect. See you then. And Riley?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“If you ever want a summer job or need to do an internship, I get first dibs, okay?”

“Wow, thanks Ms. Ripper! That would be great!”

We hang up and Dillon says, “What was
that
all about?”

“Riley just asked me a hell of a question.”

“Which is?”

“Pull over.”

“Why?”

“I want to see the look on your face when I ask it.”

“It won’t be anything important,” he says.

Sophie says, “Come on, Dillon, pull over! Dani’s not always right, but she’s always entertaining.”

Dillon pulls over, puts the car in park, then turns to face me.

“Go ahead,” he says, clearly annoyed.

As if he’s the only genius in the world.

“Ask me her brilliant, amazing question.”

“The app you installed can access every photo ever taken from Ethan’s cell phone, right? Even if it’s been erased?”

“I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“Yes, you have.”

“So?”

“So—brace yourself—where’s the picture of Riley passed out on the bed? The one we
know
he sent to Nathan Cain?”

My kickboxing coach says Teofilo Stevenson’s punches had a concussive effect. Teo would catch you with a clean shot, but you’d keep fighting, as if nothing happened. Several seconds later, you’d stagger and crumple to the canvass. You’d been knocked out instantly, but it took a few seconds for your body to get the message. Riley’s question caused that type of delayed reaction before showing up on Dillon’s face, but those seconds have passed now, and his face is turning a dark shade of purple.

He closes his eyes, starts muttering.

Checks his phone.

When he’s finally able to speak, he says, “Ethan’s dad must know someone high up in government security.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone permanently erased all pictures of Riley. It’s as if they were never taken in the first place.”

“Why didn’t you consider that possibility before now?”

“Because it’s impossible.”

Sophie says, “Obviously not. I bet they erased Riley’s photos from all ten phones.”

“All ten?” I say.

I think about it. “Well, why not? That’s a lot of witnesses to keep up with. Gavin could have gotten all the guys together, rounded up all the cell phones, removed Riley’s photos.”

Sophie says, “They probably had a meeting, where all ten brought their cell phones. While someone erased them, Gavin rehearsed the boys on what to say to the cops.”

“And me.”

“And you.”

Dillon says, “The technology you’re talking about doesn’t exist. How could they permanently remove selected photos and not all the others? This type of technology would have to be at the highest government security level.”

Sophie says, “Would Ethan’s dad have that type of pull?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But according to Riley, he’s a bigwig.”

Dillon says, “I’d like to know if that sort of technology is even possible.”

“It
has
to be,” I say. “Otherwise, you’d have found the photo of Riley we already saw.”

He looks at me. “Can you call your boyfriend?”

Sophie arches an eyebrow.

I wink at her, whip out my cell phone, call Donovan Creed.

Creed says, “Dani, I pride myself on always being available for you, but I’m kind of busy right now, unless your life’s in danger.”

“Has something terrible happened?”

“I’ll know more when we get there.”

“Where?”

“Willow Lake, Arkansas. An entire neighborhood has just been blown off the map.”

“Oh, my
God
, Donovan! Terrorists?”

“We don’t know. Are you in danger?”

“No. I—look, please. I wish I hadn’t called. I’m so sorry to bother you!”

“Just a sec,” he says, covering the mouthpiece. I hear muffled conversation, then he says, “I’m on the tarmac, waiting to taxi. The pilot says I’ve got ninety seconds. What’s up?”

“It seems so silly compared to—”

“Dani?”

“Yes?”

“Just tell me what you need.”

I take a quick breath and say, “I’ve been told it’s impossible to wipe selected photographs from a cell phone. In other words, to remove all traces of certain photos without affecting the others.”

“That’s bullshit. We’ve been doing it for years.”

“Who’s we?”

“Homeland Security. CIA. FBI. The Pentagon. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Could the average civilian do it?”

“No. These are classified programs.”

“Quick question. If they’ve been wiped clean, is there any way to restore them?”

“Not if we erased them.”

I pause a moment. He says, “Is that it?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“No problem.”

“Good luck, Donovan.”

“You too.”

I tell Dillon what Creed said.

“That is so unfair!” Dillon says. “Why should the government have all the cool stuff?”

“Don’t get me started,” I say.

“You always say that.”

He drops me off at the office, then drives Sophie home.

You know that feeling you get when you unlock the front door to your house and
feel
something’s wrong? In my case it’s the front door of my office suite.

Maybe it’s a scent. Maybe it’s intuition. Maybe it’s nothing. But
feels
like someone has been here since Dillon and I left earlier this morning. The feeling’s so strong I consider walking right back out the door and waiting for Dillon.

Except that Dillon won’t be back for at least twenty minutes.

And there’s this: I have a gun.

I walk through the reception area, past the perpetually vacant reception desk, and get the distinct feeling someone not only entered the office after we left, but they’re still
here
. To make matters worse, I hear sounds of activity coming from my office.

This can’t be good.

I quietly place my handbag on the floor, remove my gun. Creep down the hall, past Dillon’s office, the supply room, the break room, the bathroom. My office door is closed, as it should be.

There it is again!

And again.

The unmistakable sound of someone conducting a noisy search.

I pause, gun in hand, take a deep breath, silently turn the door handle with my free hand. I plan to push the door open while screaming, “
Hands in the air, asshole
!”

And shoot if I must.

That’s the plan.

But while executing it, I fail to remember my office door doesn’t push inward. It pulls outward. So when I push, nothing happens. But when I yell, “
Hands in the air, asshole
!” Someone screams inside, and—I don’t mean to, but I—well, I discharge my handgun.

The screaming continues, so at least I didn’t kill anyone. When it stops, I pull the door open, ready to shoot again.

It’s a woman.

A redhead.

“Don’t shoot!” she screams.

She’s practically naked, covered only by the type of gown you might find in a hospital, tied at the neck, wide open in the back. The front of her body is pressed tightly against the wall, as if she’s trying to blend with the drywall.

Except that she can’t, because, like I said, she’s a redhead.

That is not to say she has red hair.

In fact, she has no hair at all. On her head, anyway.

What I’m saying, her head is, quite literally, painted red. From the base of her neck to the top of her hairless scalp.

What else?

She’s shapely.

I can’t tell her age from this angle, but I can tell you she has a remarkable ass.

What makes it remarkable?

Her tattoos.

She has two.

One on each cheek.

Left cheek says
If I’m drunk...
. Right cheek says,
Flip me over
!

“What the hell are you doing in my office?” I say.

“Looking for drugs.”

“Who the fuck
are
you?”

“I’m Fanny, your receptionist.”

“
What
?”
Oh, please no!
I’m aware my mouth has dropped open, but I let it hang that way. I flat don’t care.

She turns to face me. “You’re Dani.”

It takes me a moment to form words with my mouth. I have to close it first. Eventually I say, “Why are you dressed like that?”

She moves away from the wall and I see she’s hooked up to an IV stand. It has two hooks at the top to hold some sort of infusion solution that’s being gravity-dripped into her wrist.

I point. “What’s that?”

“Just a saline drip. No big deal. I just have to make sure the bag remains twenty-seven inches above my heart.”

“Why’s that?”

“Could you put the gun down, Sugar? I nearly shit myself when you tried to shoot me.”

I look at the floor beneath her.

“Your carpet’s safe,” she says. “It’s an expression, Sugar. Relax. Put the gun down, okay?”

I lower the gun.

She says, “According to the emergency room nurse, the infusion pressure’s fifty mmHg at twenty-seven inches above the heart. At fifty-four inches, it’s double.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, Sugar, but it’s not as important as getting your envelopes pasted, right?”

“It sounds terribly important,” I say, looking nervously at the needle in her vein, and the tube that’s running red.

She follows my gaze and says, “I’ll need to re-inject myself. I’ll go outdoors so I won’t bleed on your carpet.”

“You shouldn’t change that IV by yourself!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Sugar. Last time this happened I wound up with subcutaneous crepitation. You’ll hope that happens to me again, because it’s fun. When air or gas gets trapped under my skin it’ll feel like you’re touching Rice Krispies.”

“You need a doctor,” I say.

“Don’t be silly! I’ve already lived through the worst of it. These doctors and nurses are so full of themselves. Of course, their attitude is all, “
Don’t you dare leave the ICU! You’re taking your life in your hands
!” But then I explain how important these envelopes are to you, and—”

“Look, I feel terrible about that,” I say. “And those awful texts I sent?”

“Don’t give it a second thought. You have every right to expect a full day’s work for a day’s pay. And anyway, you know how it is with those doctors and nurses. They’re just covering their asses. Speaking of which, how’d you like the tattoos on my butt?”

“Uh…I didn’t mean to stare.”

“That’s okay, Sugar. You’re not the first to enjoy the view. If you’re ever in Soho, at Billy Bikers, check out the men’s room wall, above the urinal. They’ve immortalized me. Framed photograph taken by Billy himelf.”

“Why are you here?” I say.

“You told me to get my ass to work or you’d fire me. I can’t afford to lose my hospitalization.”

“You’ve got hospitalization?”

“Of course. So do you and Dillon! I’ll get you a copy of the booklet that explains the benefits.”

“How did you—I mean, how could you possibly sign us up for group hospitalization?”

“Can I be completely honest? I forged some documents, signed some checks.”

“Who gave you check-signing privileges?”

She gives me a look. “Why,
you
did, Sugar.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No? Well, hell, I probably forged your signature for that, too. Couldn’t sign up for insurance without writing a check, after all. But no harm, no foul. I’m as honest as the day is long. Good thing, right?”

“Why are you looking for drugs in my office?”

“I couldn’t go to the pharmacy dressed like this, could I?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was looking for a prescription bottle. If you had one I could call the pharmacy, give them this scrip, maybe have them deliver my meds here.”

“The pharmacy wouldn’t fill your prescription under my name.”

“Sure they would!”

“How’s that possible?”

“I used your name when I checked into the hospital.”

I frown.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

“I’m sorry, Fanny, but this isn’t working out. I’m going to have to let you go.”

“Don’t be silly!”

“I’m completely serious, Fanny. While I’m sympathetic to your unnamed illness, you’re clearly a scam artist.”

“In certain circles I’m known as a Nordic Princess, and a key member of the IVBF.”

“What’s that, a shoe store in Kettledrum, Illinois?”

“I can’t say, never having visited the mythical kingdom of Kettledrum, where you might be town mayor,” Fanny says. “But the IVBF
I’m
referring to is the International Virgin Boat Festival.”

“We’re getting off topic again.”

“Here’s a topic. You shot me with a handgun.”

“Shot
at
you.”

“In Minnesota, they call that attempted murder. Check the State Criminal Code of 1963, Section Number 609.”

“We’re not in Minnesota. And anyway, I thought you broke into my office.”

“That’s not going to play well with the police. They might wonder what sort of employer forces dying women in hospital gowns to come in and paste envelopes while hooked to IVs. Not to mention discharging a deadly weapon in the workplace. Check California Penal Code Section 12031 for reference.”