Snakes & Ladders (15 page)

Home sweet home.

The day was done. He was done. Damn well depleted. And it was time for some much-needed shut-eye because tomorrow was undoubtedly going to be another wild day. He killed the engine and opened the door. When he started to get out, Felicia grabbed his forearm.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘The keys?’

He stopped getting out of the car, hesitated, then dropped back into the driver’s seat. He looked at her. Felt a flood of disappointment. ‘You’re not coming in, are you?’

When Felicia didn’t respond, he looked at her face – at her dark eyes and warm lips – and he wanted more than anything to have her come inside with him, so he could snuggle up next to her in his bed. Feel her warm flesh. Have her long hair spill all around him. Smell her in the sheets. Wrap himself around her . . . They had done all this in the past. But that was just a distant memory now.

‘I really have to go,’ she said.

‘The door is always open for you.’

‘Jacob—’

‘Even if you just want to sleep on the couch, right?’

She looked over and met his eyes. ‘The couch? Really. Come on, Jacob. It won’t end there and we both know it.’

‘And is that such a bad thing?’

‘No. Yes. You know what I mean.’

‘Feleesh—’

‘I can’t do this any more, Jacob. Courtney hates my guts. And then there’s the whole thing with Amanda – I can’t compete with a memory.’

‘I never asked you to.’

‘You don’t have to ask – it’s always there no matter what you say, and it always will be.’

He only shrugged at the comment; he didn’t get what she was saying.

‘This just isn’t working out,’ she finally said. ‘Our relationship . . . it changes too many things. Especially at work. It’s altered our whole dynamic. We’re good partners, Jacob, and good friends, too. I don’t want to lose all that.’

‘And what about when we’re not at work?’

She laughed. ‘And when are we
not
at work?’

He searched for a response and came up short. And to be honest, he was too tired to argue the point. This was a conversation he was growing progressively weary of, and yet it was the same one that always seemed to pop up again and again at the end of every long day. He was beaten down by it, and he let it go.

He looked at Felicia’s face, took it all in, and felt so many emotions that they over-spilled. He wanted to tell her how much he missed her. How much he wanted her there with him every day. How they should always be together, and that all the little problems just didn’t matter.

But he didn’t say any of that. He just sat there and said nothing, and, eventually, he handed her the keys and stepped out of the car.

Felicia took a long look at his face and her expression softened. ‘I do love you, Jacob, if that means anything any more.’

‘It means everything,’ he said. ‘Which is why none of this makes sense.’

Felicia made no reply. She just moved to the driver’s side and closed the door. The transmission let out a loud clank as she put the car into Drive. And moments later, she was gone, speeding off down the road. Just a pair of tiny red tail lights growing smaller in the distance as the darkness thickened all around her.

Striker stood there in the cold and dark night, and stared at the empty road. Thinking, thinking, thinking. When it was more than Striker could take, he turned around and walked up the old porch steps.

Alone.

Inside, the house was dark and quiet. Only one light was on, coming from far down the hall, and Striker knew it was from Courtney’s bedroom. Ever since the incident last year, she’d had problems with the dark. And confined areas. And who could blame her for that? He let the light be. She had enough on her plate with therapy; he wasn’t about to push it.

He tiptoed down the hallway to his daughter’s room and peered inside. Crashed out on the bed in a soundless sleep was Courtney. Her thick auburn hair swept over her creamy cheeks and hid the rest of her face. Striker took a long look at her, watching her chest rise with every breath. Then he looked at the crutches leaning against the far wall.

More bad reminders.

He closed her door and let her sleep. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer – a Miller Genuine Draft – and then walked into the den. It was cold and dark, so he flicked on the gas fire. He crashed down on the sofa and felt the hardness of the cold leather. As the room warmed up, he went over everything in his head.

The day had been long and hard. A good woman had died. And now another was missing. His world had been turned upside down. Twice in one day.

‘Where the hell are you, Larisa?’ he asked aloud.

The words sounded weak in the open space of the room. For all intents and purposes, Larisa Logan had disappeared. She had become a ghost. A Missing Persons file.

It made no sense.

His eyelids felt heavy. Bed was calling.

Striker glanced at his iPhone one last time to see if Larisa had called and he’d somehow missed it. There were no missed calls, but there was a big red number 1 on the email notification. He hit the Email button and saw one message on the screen. He read the header:

At first, Striker almost hit the Delete button, but something about the message bothered him. He put down his bottle of beer and leaned forward in his seat. Then he opened the message.

It was short, simple, and to the point:

The world was still dark when Striker got up, and the room seemed to move on him in his half-asleep state. He kicked the blankets off his legs and stood up in the darkness, the hardwood floor feeling cold on his bare feet. He grabbed his robe from the hook on the wall, wrapped it around himself to ward off the chill, and stepped out into the hall.

Dim light flooded the far-away kitchen area and the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard filled the air. It was Percy Wadsworth, Striker knew –
Ich
, as everyone called him, due to his uncanny resemblance to Ichabod Crane from the
Sleepy Hollow
fable. When Striker called him with news of the email message, the tech had come right over.

He was a godsend.

Striker walked down the hall and stopped in the kitchen doorway. The electronic blue light from the computer screen gave the corner where Ich was sitting an artificial look. Striker reached up and turned on the overhead light.

When the room brightened, Ich didn’t even react. He sat at the kitchen table, slumped like a scoliosis victim with an arthritic spine. His eyes stared out from behind large wire-rimmed glasses, and the shirt he wore was two sizes too big for his skinny build. On the table in front of him were several empty cans of Irish coffee Monster energy drink and a few Snickers bar wrappers.

‘Any luck?’ Striker asked.

Ich finally stopped typing. He looked up, pushed his glasses back up the long thin bridge of his nose, and let out a heavy breath. ‘Not much,’ he said, and the words were a let-down to Striker. Among other things, Ich was the department’s internet specialist. If he couldn’t trace the source of the email, then no one could.

It was just that simple.

The acidic smell of stale coffee filled the air, and it was a welcome aroma. Striker walked over to the machine, grabbed a cup from the sink, and poured some old Nabob. It had been made sometime during the night – who knows when – and the brew was as black as motor sludge. He pulled a package of pastries from the cupboard – raspberry Danishes and lemon rolls. He threw it on the table.

‘There you go, Ich. Breakfast of Champions.’

Ich looked over. ‘Freshly baked, I’m sure.’

‘Good hydrogenated pureness,’ Striker countered. ‘With a hint of trans fats.’

Ich grinned. ‘Felicia would kill you if she knew.’ He took a raspberry Danish without looking and bit off a chunk.

Striker came up to the table. ‘So . . . we even know how this guy found me? I mean, this message came from my own personal email account.’

Ich swallowed a mouthful of Danish. ‘Actually, that was the easy part. It’s called having a sixteen-year-old daughter.’

Striker didn’t like the ring of that. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Courtney’s listed on a social-networking site called MyShrine.’

‘So?’

Ich gestured for Striker to come around the table. Then he turned on Firefox and clicked on the MyShrine tab. Already pre-filled on the page was the login name and password. Ich hit Enter, and Courtney’s homepage loaded:

Name: The Court.

Striker watched the screen as Ich navigated through different profile sections. He couldn’t help but feel they were invading his daughter’s privacy. It was like reading someone’s electronic diary, and he self-consciously looked down the hall at her bedroom door.

‘Right here,’ Ich said. He clicked on the profile pictures and paged through them. As he did so, Striker saw several photos of himself among them – some of them in uniform. It was surprising. In some ways it made him feel good to know she had included him; in other ways, he didn’t like it. He’d been in the newspapers and on TV enough times over the years – always when working a big case – for the general public to know who he was. And that was one thing.

But this connected his career of policing to their home.

It wasn’t good.

‘I want these pictures removed,’ he said.

Ich nodded. ‘The message this guy left you is right here.’ He clicked on the Message Wall and brought up the veiled threat. ‘Courtney has all her privacy rules set to minimum – she really should change that. She’s got message forwarding clicked on, so all her messages are automatically relayed from here to your home email. And since you have email forwarding set up on your phone, you got it, too.’

Striker thought this over. ‘But I don’t get
all
her MyShrine messages, just this one.’

‘That’s because of the filter settings. They were altered the moment the email was sent. Which means that somehow he’s been playing with your settings.’

Striker frowned at that. It was all technical mumbo-jumbo to him. ‘Is this guy on her Friends’ list?’ he asked.

‘Naw, she’s never included him in that. He just sent a message to her wall – a post, like anyone can do. Normally, everything would be filtered to only Courtney. The weird thing is, this guy knew you would get it.’ He searched through the forwarding options and unchecked Striker’s email address. ‘There. Fixed again . . . But that doesn’t explain how he got into your email options in the first place. What are your security settings on your computer?’

Striker shook his head. ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘You need to know this stuff, Shipwreck. It’s the computer age, remember?’

‘That’s Felicia’s role. I shoot people.’

Ich laughed softly. He worked his way to the internet settings and shook his head. ‘Your firewall is down, man. Anyone can get in here.’ He made a few clicks, then saved the changes. ‘There. It’s secure now. But for all we know, this guy could’ve been rooting around in your computer for months. If he’s good enough, that is – and I think he is.’

Striker said nothing. He was not a social-networking-savvy guy, nor was he technologically up to date. Every day, he just turned on the computer and it worked; that was about as far as his skills went. Felicia was the technological master of their partnership. He wished she was here right now.

For many reasons.

‘What about the original sender?’ he asked Ich. ‘Can we find him?’

‘Untraceable.’ Ich grabbed a can of Monster drink from the table and slurped back the rest of it. He then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and continued. ‘First off, you need a warrant for this stuff.’

‘That’s not a problem, I can get one in two hours.’

Ich shook his head. ‘Don’t bother, that’s not the point. I got a contact with MyShrine, and I already used him. He gave me the account info – off the record, of course. The message is being sent through a proxy server. Which isn’t good for us.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because most of those companies wipe their data every hour on the hour. And ninety-nine per cent of them are set up offshore. The chance of getting anything back is abysmal, much less something useful. Plus, if this guy’s smart enough to do this, he’s probably using other hide-ware programs as well.’ Ich gave Striker a hard look. ‘Be careful with this guy. This shit ain’t easy to do.’

‘Point taken.’

Striker read the message one more time. Analysed it. There was no actual threat in the words, only insinuation. But that was enough. And the sender had signed the message with no real name, only
The Adder
– a name Striker had never heard before.

It was typical. In a time when internet sickos were cyber-bullying people, opening paedophiliac chat rooms, and defacing online memorial sites like creepy electronic trolls, not much surprised him any more.

He swallowed back the rest of his cup of coffee. ‘Thanks for your help, Ich. Really, I owe you one.’

The techie just shrugged. ‘Any time, Detective.’

Striker put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ve done enough. Go home and get some sleep.’ He smiled. ‘
My
day’s just starting.’

Ich nodded and stood up from the computer. ‘If this guy sends any more messages, don’t delete them. Don’t open them. And don’t turn off the computer. Just leave it alone and call me – ASAP. I’ll come right over.’

Striker nodded. He walked Ich to the front door, thanked him again for his time, and watched as the police car drove off into the grey darkness of the winter morning.

Ich had no sooner left when another police car came roaring down the road. An unmarked. A Ford Taurus. It came to a sliding stop on the icy road and almost hit the kerb. The sight of it made Striker smile.

Felicia had arrived.

She got out gingerly, balancing two coffees in her hand. Tim Horton’s coffee. The Best. She walked up the sidewalk, kicked open the gate, climbed the steps, and handed him one. In the yellowish light of the porch lamp, she looked pretty. Rested. Like she’d slept well and was ready to go for another day.