Trust Me, I'm Trouble (24 page)

He grabs my hands to get my attention. “I’ll be fine. You have the harder job this time. Are you sure Bryn’s up for this?”

Bryn is wearing one of my work outfits plus a chic fedora for camera-evading purposes. She’s a bit tall for my pants, but not so much that it’s noticeable. Murphy hands her the glasses he’d just been playing with. She slides the chunky frames awkwardly over her nose. They have a camera built into them so she can be my eyes for this operation. And my hands.

“If she can hang with Murphy’s larpers, she can do this. We need to get that footage before the security company has a chance to turn it over to the cops. This is our best play.”

Sam nods, dropping my hands as Murphy comes over with our communicators.

“All right, I calibrated these to access a secure channel through Bessie’s network,” Murphy says, handing us the tiny tan earpieces. “They’re wireless, though, so there may be static from time to time. We’ll all be able to hear each other as long as we talk loud enough. Whispering won’t cut it.”

“Explain to me why we’re doing this again?” Bryn says, sliding her earpiece in.

“Because if the camera caught me near Duke’s office, I’ll either become a murder suspect or I’ll be arrested outright for removing evidence.”

“Or both,” Sam puts in helpfully.

“Besides,” I continue, ignoring him, “if we get the footage first, we may be able to track down Duke’s killer.”

“And we would want to do that because…?”

“Because we’re the ones with the best hope of figuring out what’s really going on.”

“Can’t we just tell the cops what we know?”

“Not without implicating me and my entire family,” I say. “Look, if any of you want out, I’ll understand. I can do it  myself.”

“No, you can’t,” Sam says just as Bryn says, “I didn’t say that.” Bryn takes a breath and continues, “I just want to be sure we’re all on the same page.”

I nod, sticking my earpiece in. It feels like an earbud except a little bigger and without a cord. Weird.

“How will I ask questions when I’m in the building?” Bryn says.

“That’s what the glasses are for,” I say. “I should be able to anticipate your needs if I can see what you’re seeing.”

“This is crazy,” Lily says, putting her earpiece in. “I can’t believe this is actually happening. I feel like I’m a movie extra.”

Murphy snorts. “Get used to it. Working for Julep Dupree is like flinging yourself off a skyscraper without a parachute.”

Sam fist-bumps him.

“Hey, I resent that,” I say. “I provide parachutes.”

Bryn looks at her watch. “Are we doing this? I have a manicure at five.”

“Suit up!” Murphy says.

“Murphy, really?” I say, pained.

He shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

I sigh. “Just try not to do anything stupid. If you get caught, I’m denying everything.” Then I turn to fuss with Sam’s hoodie a final time and say under my breath so the others can’t hear, “Take care of them, all right?”

“I will,” he says with a small smile.

“Seriously, you guys, come on,” Bryn says. “It’s like herding cats.”

My band of unlikely criminals piles into our crappy van, which then putters off down the street. I watch them through the window until they round the corner, and then slouch my way into the guest-room desk chair. I open my laptop and start the camera-feed app. It’s jarring at first, seeing Bryn’s surroundings through her perspective. For one thing, she plays with her hair a lot.

I flip the On switch for my earpiece. “Can you guys hear me?”

“Yep,” I hear Sam say in my ear. Bryn looks at him, and I see him sitting hunched on the floor of the van, looking thoroughly gangster for such a privileged rich kid. I’m nervous for him. This is a lot to ask.

Fifteen minutes and a few jokes about Bessie’s backfiring later, Murphy pulls the van into the back of the parking lot for Allied Security Systems, Inc. I’m pretty sure the
Inc.
was added for the sake of the acronym. There may have been a few jokes about that as well.

“All right, pull it together,” I say. “Bryn, the glasses are crooked. Could you—?” The camera angle tilts crazily for a few seconds before righting itself into the exact same crooked angle as before. “Never mind. Sam, you’re up.”

The first phase of Operation Peeping Tom (Murphy’s name, not mine) is for Sam to distract the security guards using our time-tested, highly effective walk-by-dressed-like-a-hoodlum method. It’s not the classiest of grifter tools, perhaps, but it works.

Sam gets out of the van, pulling up his hood and adopting the trademark slump characteristic to most boys in our age group. He swaggers past the security guards, casting them a quick, guilt-laden glance and then looking away. He’s playing it casual, but in a trying-to-cover-up-anxiety way. And he’s nailing it.

Both security guards covering the side entrance peel off after Sam, calling out to question his presence. Bryn sneaks around to the building wall, carefully skirting the security cameras’ field of vision while Sam gives the guards just enough attitude to keep them occupied.

Phase two is a little trickier. Sam and Murphy spent the morning figuring out how to hack into the building’s fire alarm system. Bryn waits between a bush and the back door for Murphy to fake an alarm.

“She’s in position. Now, Murph,” I say.

A few seconds later, the alarm sounds, automatically unlocking the external doors for firefighters to enter. Bryn slips in, taking me with her.

“We’re in,” I say to the team. “Sam, get out of there. Murphy, kill the alarm. If we’re lucky, they’ll think it was a short.”

“They’ll still have to come check it out, so you have ten minutes, tops.” Murphy says.

Bryn walks us down a darkened hallway. It’s the weekend, so she shouldn’t run into anyone in this wing of the building. Most of the Saturday shift works in the annex. It’s amazing what you can learn about people’s work habits on their Facebook pages.

“Keep your hat low over your face,” I say to Bryn. “Just in case.”

“I know, I know,” she says.

“Wait,” I say as she passes an office directory affixed to the wall. “Look at the directory.”

I’d called the company earlier today, first posing as a potential client and getting the rundown of the process for collecting and storing security footage. The second time I called, I posed as an OkCupid date for “George” and gotten all kinds of information out of the well-intentioned, if airheaded receptionist.

Now to match up the cube number with the directory, and…“Bingo—three rows to the left, five rows back.”

When Bryn gets to the server room, she walks up to the nearest terminal computer and, gloves on, presses the power button.

“Five minutes,” Murphy says into our ears. The door to the van slides open and closed in our ears as well.

“Is that Sam?” I ask.

“I’m here. What are you seeing?” Sam says.

“Windows log-in screen,” Bryn says. “It was off.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Press F8 a bunch of times until you get the command screen.”

Bryn follows his instructions, and the screen goes dark. White text appears.

“Check,” I say. “What next?”

“Click Safe Mode and wait for the administrator log-on screen to pop up.”

“It’s up.”

“I know,” Sam says. “I’m looking at the camera feed. Now, open the Control Panel and click User Accounts. Okay, click George’s user account and then Remove Password. Now restart the computer and log in with the new credentials.”

Bryn logs in successfully and opens the aptly named Security Footage Database.

“There doesn’t seem to be a browsing function, only a search function. What do I search for? Cult leader killing?” Bryn hisses as quietly as possible.

“Search by date and time. Anything we can do to winnow down the results.”

Bryn complies. The results do winnow down, but there are still far too many files.

“Add NWI as a search parameter,” Sam says.

Bryn does so and the files winnow further, but still not enough.

“I don’t have time to look at every single one to find the right room,” Bryn says. “I have to be gone before the cops get here.”

“Okay, okay,” I say. “Open just the ones that say ‘hallway.’ There are fewer of those, and one of them has to be the hallway outside of Duke’s office.”

The first four video files Bryn opens are elsewhere in the NWI building. But the fifth file is the one we want.

“That’s it!” I say. “Email it to Sam, quick.”

Bryn opens a browser window and puts in the URL for Sam’s email. “Why can’t I just use Gmail?”

“Video file size is too large,” Murphy says. “Gmail won’t let you send it unless it’s a link to somewhere else, like YouTube. Sam’s email is set up for emailing larger files.”

Bryn heaves a sigh and attaches the file to a hastily composed email. “This better be worth it.”

“We’re over the time cutoff by three minutes,” Murphy says. “Hurry up.”

“I’m hurrying,” she says, just as we all hear sirens rapidly approaching the building’s parking lot. “Okay, hurrying faster.”

After the email sends, Bryn closes down the browser, wiping the browser history as she goes.

“Now, delete all the files on the hard drive for that date and time,” I say. “The cops can’t know about the blue-fairy flash drive.”

Bryn highlights all the files in the folder and presses Delete. “There better not be anything else—”

“No. Go!” I say.

But just as she reaches the door, it opens of its own accord, admitting a security guard and the fire chief.

“Bryn!” Murphy shouts in my ear.

“Calm down, everybody,” I say. “Bryn, listen to me, we can still salvage this. Just don’t say anything.”

“What are you doing here?” asks the security guard. “Didn’t you hear the fire alarm? Protocol states that you are required to evacuate when the fire alarm goes off.”

“Okay, Bryn,” I say. “Start signing.”

She doesn’t move.

“Like, with your hands. It’s okay if you don’t know sign language. Odds are they don’t, either. But you have to be confident. Pretend you’re onstage. Pretend you’re angry. Now. Do it now.”

Bryn obeys, though I see only the tips of her fingers as they flick into her line of sight. I can’t be sure, but it looks like she gestures to her ear a few times as well.

“Good,” I say, studying the security guard’s expression. “He’s buying it. Mimic writing something.”

The security guard startles and pulls a small notebook and pen out of his pocket. He hands it to her, sheepishly.

“Now write ‘I’m deaf, you idiot.’ ”

“Is the ‘you idiot’ necessary?” Murphy asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Write it.”

Bryn complies and shoves the notebook at the guard. Nice touch.

“Sorry, m-ma’am,” the guard stutters. “But the alarm has flashing lights, too.”

“The alarm cut off after less than a few seconds,” the fire chief points out. “She might not have seen it.”

The security guard nods. “Well, protocol still states that everyone must evacuate the building until the alarm is confirmed false.”

“Nod and follow them out,” I say.

Bryn does as told and follows them to the door. The security guard swipes his employee badge at the card reader, looking at Bryn expectantly.

Crap. They must require employees to badge in and out at every checkpoint.

“Murphy, pull the alarm again.”

Earsplitting noise erupts through my communicator. I wince and try to ignore it. “Go, Bryn. Just go.”

The security guard and fire chief are so distracted by the renewed alarm that Bryn is able to push her way past them without further objection.

“Don’t stop until you’re out of the building and back in the van,” I say, leaning back in relief.

“Jesus, that was close,” Bryn says shakily when the van’s doors close behind her.

“Get out of there, Murphy. You’re not safe until you’re back here.”

“Are you sure nobody caught us on camera?” Sam says.

“Well, if they did, we now know how to get rid of the evidence,” Lily says.

None of us laugh.

“Too soon?” she says.

“I’ll drive,” Sam says, slipping into the driver’s seat.

Then my camera feed cants crazily as Bryn throws the glasses onto the dash and throws herself into Murphy’s arms. I get an up-close-and-personal, if upside-down, view of Murphy’s sweater-vest pocket as he holds her close.

“You were amazing,” he says to her, which of course, all of us hear.

“Yeah, you were,” I say, feeling beyond tired all of a sudden. It’s a lot harder talking someone through a job than just pulling it myself.

“This better be worth it,” Bryn mumbles into Murphy’s chest.

“It will be,” I say.

• • •

Two hours later, Sam downloads the footage and remotes me in so I can watch it from the Ramirezes’ guest room.

“You could have stayed,” I say to him over the phone.

Sam fiddles with the window size and screen resolution on his laptop. “Last time I had dinner with you, you kicked me out.”

“True. And I might have kicked you out again. I’m still furious that you kept the fact that you were working for my mom a secret. I’m not letting that go, by the way. We will be talking about that as soon as I put out all these fires. There will probably be torture. You may want to bring Band-Aids.”

“I’d laugh, but I think you’re being serious.”

“Like a prison sentence,” I say. “Are you done messing around? How long does it take to load a video?”

He must have moved the phone closer to his mouth, because his voice sounds clearer and closer now. “Julep. Are you sure you want to watch it?”

“It’s not the actual murder,” I say. “It’s just the hallway after. We’ll find out the killer without having to…watch.”

“All right,” Sam says. “Video playing in three…two…”

It’s a long, silent wait, because each video segment is broken into twenty-minute chunks. The first thirteen minutes show a lot of nothing. Then there’s me, walking up to the door and knocking. It’s surreal watching myself through the silent feed.

“This can’t be right. It doesn’t show anyone else leaving before I got there.”

“Maybe he was dead for longer than twenty minutes?” Sam says. “The killer could have left—”