Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“There’s nothing on here,” I assure her, wiping down the laptop.
“Thank you,” she says, laying a palm over her heart. “You have no idea what a relief this is.”
Oh, I have an inkling.
She clears her throat. “Did you mention this to Violet?”
“Of course. She’s my wife.”
She makes a face. “How did she take it?”
“Not well, at first.”
She exhales through her nose. “I’ll have to go see her. For obvious reasons, we can’t talk on the phone.”
I have diverters in place on both our phones and in my house, but I don’t mention that. A little extra precaution can’t hurt. “Give the dust a day or two to settle.”
Bobbing her head up and down, she motions at the glass that stands in a puddle of condensation on the tray. “You better drink that. Just for appearance’s sake.”
After downing the iced tea, I leave the glass on the tray. “See you around.”
She’s already packed the laptop back into the bag. She arranges the strap over her shoulder. “Tell Violet I say hi. I miss her.”
“I’m sure you do. You’re always welcome at our place.”
A smile transforms her face. “I like how you put that—our place.”
I shrug. “That’s how it is.”
After scrutinizing me, she asks, “Are you sure there’s nothing else you need to tell me?”
If Violet doesn’t want her mother to know Elliot blackmailed her with those photos, I’m not going to tell. I respect Violet’s decision.
“No,” I say before making my way across the lawn.
Before heading home, I have another stop to make. The duplex is in a fancy new development in Fourways, not far from Violet’s work. I don’t approach the security gate. I park at the back of the complex at a gas station with a carwash and a diner and order a coffee and a slice of pie inside. Paying upfront, I tell the waitress I’m having my car washed and that I’ll be right back. She offers to keep my seat free.
I return outside and park my car in the queue to be washed, leaving my key and a huge tip with the valet. Making sure no one is watching, I scale the wall between the gas station and the complex, landing on my feet behind the tennis courts. The garden is quiet. Most people are still stuck in the peak hour traffic on their way home from work. Still, I creep along the shelter of the bamboo and locate the security cameras. When the eye of the camera that covers my radius turns, I cut across the lawn and go up the stairs to number fourteen. I found the guy’s name and number on Elliot’s computer. By tracing his cell phone number, I easily located the address.
Keeping an eye on the surroundings, I pull on the leather gloves I use for driving and take an infrared lens from my pocket to scout for an alarm system in the unit. I pick up a motion detector that functions with laser beams.
Within five minutes, I’ve picked the locks on the security gate and the front door and deactivated the alarm. To be on the safe side, I keep my Glock close. After a quick search of the apartment, I locate a laptop in the bedroom. The security is child’s play. In no time, I’m in the guy’s bank account, email account, and digital folders. As I expected, the man who sells himself as an experienced private investigator kept a set of the photos he delivered to Elliot for himself. Insurance, maybe. Or perhaps he was planning on keeping them for a day he needed more money.
I delete the folder and then follow a cyber trail from his social media account to his cell phone. Using that trail, I plant a bug in the software of his phone that piggybacks on his Instagram profile. Granting myself remote access, I run a quick graphic matching program on his phone—another one of my inventions—and find the original photos still in his trash folder. Unless he empties the folder, the photos will remain there for thirty days. I empty his trash folder, but it’s not enough. The photos can still be recovered from cyber space. After doing a deep cleansing and wiping out all traces of the evidence, I log out of his computer. Before I lock up and leave, I do a more thorough search of the studio apartment.
Satisfied that there are no paper copies hidden anywhere, I retrace my steps to the gas station and arrive just as the valet drives my car through the carwash rollers. While my car is being dried and polished, I finish my cold coffee and pie.
Violet is wringing her hands in the lounge when I get home.
She rushes up to me. “Where were you? I called the office. They told me you left at five.”