Innocent Mistakes Page 9
While they banter, Sasha scans the room looking for August Mixter, the technology expert. She spots him near the windows, chatting with the legal assistants and Naya’s new associate.
“Excuse me, Caroline.”
She swims through the crowded conference room and tries not to panic at the thought of all these people whose livelihoods depend on her, Will, and Naya. They’ve been conservative about growing the firm, but somehow, one new hire at a time, they’ve amassed enough employees to fill the conference room. And the weight of it presses on her sometimes. Like now.
“Pardon me, August,” she says as she approaches the group by the window.
“Yeah?” August responds through a mouthful of sandwich, turning toward her voice. When he sees who she is, his eyes bulge out and his face turns red.
Oh, sweet heavens, please don’t choke.
She really doesn’t want to have to do abdominal thrusts on the IT guy. She’s moderately pleased that she remembers the correct name of the procedure that’s replaced the Heimlich maneuver, but that doesn’t mean she wants to perform it. Luckily, he swallows his food and takes a breath.
Still red-faced, he swigs his water. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry, Ms. McCandless-Connelly. I didn’t realize it was you.”
Evidently.
She smiles. “No apology needed. Are you okay?”
He coughs and nods. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I hate to bother you during lunch but I need your help with something fairly time sensitive.”
He drops his plate on the windowsill and bolts to his feet. “Sure, of course.”
“Thanks. Bring your food. And grab a cookie or brownie on your way out. I’ll meet you in your office in a few minutes.”
She waves a greeting to Naya and slips out of the conference room to pick up Colin and Siobhan’s phones and her laptop. By the time she gets to the information technology suite on the other end of the floor, August is already at his desk. A sprinkling of cookie crumbs on his shirt collar suggests he’s finished his meal. She figures she’s already embarrassed him enough for one day, so she ignores the crumbs and hauls the electronics onto his desk.
“So what’ve we got?” He rubs his hands together, expectant and eager.
“First, I need to you to make copies of everything on these two cell phones.”
“Everything? Like …”
“I want to see text messages, in-app messages, photos, emails, phone logs, notes—stuff that a human created.”
He’s nodding. “Sure, sure.”
“I want you to copy the … other stuff, too. The digital footprint. All the data that I won’t understand. I need you to interpret it for me. Translate it into English.”
Now, his forehead wrinkles. “What are you looking for, exactly?”
“I’m not sure.” She reaches past Colin’s phone in his Tigers Baseball case and points at Siobhan’s phone, encased in a muted rainbow-colored case with the words “Be Kind” printed across it. “A message was posted to a local high school’s intranet, and it allegedly originated from this phone. The owner says she didn’t post it.”
He scribbles a note on a pad of graph paper that sits at his left elbow. A fellow lefty—she likes him already.
“What about this other phone?”
She huffs out a long breath. “Here’s where it gets complicated. The post appeared under the school ID of the owner of the second phone. He also says he didn’t post it. I need to know how someone accessed his ID and her phone and posted the comment.”
He pulls a face but doesn’t say whatever he’s thinking.
“What?”
He heaves a heavy sigh. Then he says, “The easiest explanation is that one or both of them is lying. I mean, clients lie all the time, right?”
She’s silent for a beat. He’s not wrong. “Yes, clients lie, but I’m inclined to believe these particular clients.”
“Oh? Are they VIPs?” Excitement lights his eyes.
“They’re my teenaged nephew and niece. I asked them to remove their PINs so you should be able to access everything. I mean, I’m sure you could’ve cracked the codes anyway, but this way you don’t have to waste your time.”
August shakes his head with a pained expression. “I keep putting my foot in it with you.”
“Listen, don’t worry about it. Truly. Just prioritize this matter—and bill your time to my personal billing number.”
“Are you sure?” He rakes his teeth across his lower lip. “It’s gonna be expensive.”
“I’m positive. Bill the time. And there’s one more thing. Well, three more things.”
He stacks Colin’s phone on top of Siobhan’s and places them in his in-box. “Hit me.”
She lifts the lid to her laptop and powers it on to show him the picture of her brother’s broken living room window. “This photo was posted in one of the school’s virtual classrooms. Can you figure out from the metadata who took it?”
“Uh, sure. But wouldn’t it be whoever posted it?”
“I don’t think so. Not necessarily, at least. It also appears here, and here.” She opens two more tabs to show him the PTA’s message board and a community group in Sean and Riley’s neighborhood. “See?”
He narrows his eyes and squints at the screen. “Yeah, I’m with you.”
“Good.”
“You said there were three things?”
She pulls up the school’s intranet home page and scrolls to the previous day’s headlines. She points under the photo of Hunter Dalton. “This is the comment that started it all. The FBI’s forensics team already analyzed it, and they’re the ones who say it was posted from Siobhan’s phone. I don’t know how they decided that, but maybe they’re wrong. So double check that.”
He looks vaguely nauseous and clammy. His skin’s taken on a green tinge, and sweat is beading at his hairline. He gulps. “The FBI’s involved?”
“Not anymore,” she promises in her most soothing voice.
Her assurance doesn’t seem to help. He mutters something indistinct.
She doesn’t have time to coddle him into doing the work. She needs to find some answers before Joe Donaldson does. Colin’s quick thinking in telling Siobhan to erase her outgoing voicemail message may have given them a head start—but probably only of an hour or so. She knows how easy it will be for the district attorney’s office to obtain the records from the cell phone carrier through proper channels instead of whatever back door Agent Merriweather used. And once they do, Joe’ll know the number is Siobhan’s. Sasha needs to cover as much ground as she can before Joe pieces it together.
“How soon can you get this all done?”
August shakes himself out of his shock. He bobs his head from side to side, and looks at the ceiling, calculating. “Six, maybe seven hours, depending.”
“Perfect. I’ll be in my office. If you need anything, let me know.”
19
Hunter’s stuck in the TV room with Mom and Dad. They’re rewatching Mom’s campaign statement on the local news for the billionth time. Well, Mom and Dad are. He’s zoned out, staring in the general direction of the screen as she blabs on about the dangers of cyberbullying.
His stomach growls, and he’s about to ask if she plans to start making dinner any time soon. Dad must sense danger, like a zebra in the African savanna. Before Hunter gets the words out, Dad pauses the recording.
“How’s pizza sound tonight, pal? Give Mom a break from cooking—she’s had a busy day.”
Mom beams. “Paul, that’s a great idea. I love that my men are so supportive of me.”
“Pizza? Hmm, let me think.” Hunter pretends to consider it, while Mom and Dad laugh. Dorks.
“Order two, Paul. Nathan’s dropping by.”
“Uncle Nate’s coming over?” Hunter drops the dopey act in favor of genuine excitement. Uncle Nate is legit.
“Yes. He’s going to update us on your case.”
Hunter tries not to squirm. The ‘case’ is so stupid. As if h
e gives a crap about what Colin freaking McCandless thinks of him. And if they ever threw fists, he’d annihilate that red-haired twerp with a beatdown he’d never forget.
Dad scrunches up his forehead. “What do you mean, Leigh? I thought Nate said the Bureau made him drop the whole thing?”
Mom puffs out her cheeks and then exhales a long, slow breath. “While he can’t continue to work on the investigation officially, he’s made some inquiries. And he has some thoughts.”
“But, the district attorney—”
“Let’s just wait and hear what he has to say.” She cuts him off with a voice like a blade.
“Right, of course.”
It was cool to be on television, but Hunter wishes his mom would let it go. He’d rather be the center of attention for his running, not this stupid thing with Colin.
“Hunter, why don’t you set the table while I order the pies,” Dad suggests, picking up the phone.
He zips out of the living room before Dad can change his mind—or hit play on Mom’s speech again. He’s filling the water glasses when Uncle Nate rings the doorbell. He races for the door, but Mom beats him there.
“Hiya, Hunter.”
“Hi, Uncle Nate.”
Dad emerges from the living room. “Can I get you a beer, Nate?”
“Always.”
Dad heads to the kitchen, and Hunter plunks himself down on the couch. When Dad returns with the beers, Uncle Nate’s in his chair, so he motions for Hunter to scoot over closer to Mom, and the three of them squeeze onto the couch.
Uncle Nate swigs the beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he leans forward and eyes Hunter closely. “You okay, kid?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. The whole thing’s stupid.”
Mom’s eyes shoot daggers at him, but her voice is sugary sweet. “Don’t minimize your trauma, Hunter.”
“I don’t have any trauma.”
Uncle Nate’s expression is serious. “Your mom’s right. Cyberbullying can be devastating. Don’t bottle up your feelings or pretend it doesn’t bother you just to be a tough guy.”
The betrayal stings, and Hunter blinks. His entire life—ever since he was old enough to understand what being an FBI agent means—Uncle Nate’s been his hero. Unlike Dad—who boringly owns a used car lot—Uncle Nate’s job is mysterious, exciting, and dangerous. Now he’s yammering on about feelings?
“I’m not pretending. It doesn’t bother me. Can we drop it, please?”
But Uncle Nate won’t let it go. “Hunter, there are documented cases of teenagers who were so severely cyberbullied and harassed that they took their own lives. If you’re feeling any sort of despair or urges or you just need to talk to somebody, let your parents know. Or let me know.”
Mom’s nodding. “Uncle Nate’s right, honey. We can help you through this.”
“Are you being serious right now? I don’t care what some baseball dweeb thinks of me. I’m not upset or traumatized—and I’m definitely not suicidal. You’re all making a big deal out of nothing.”
What he wants to say, but doesn’t dare, is that Mom’s milking this to get on the school board. The same way she did when he was six and snatched a package of peanut butter crackers from Mia Wolfe’s lunchbox. After he recovered from anaphylactic shock, she used his nut allergy to get herself elected PTA president and have his elementary school declared a nut-free facility. This is the same thing all over again. But, this time, he’s not six, and he doesn’t have to play along.
But they’re all watching him with these grave, concerned expressions. He sighs.
“Fine. If I need to talk to someone, I’ll come and find one of you.”
“That’s all we need to know, son.” Dad puts his arm around Hunter’s shoulder and gives him a side hug.
“Great.” He shrugs off Dad’s arm and aims a zinger at his uncle. “But, if it’s such a big deal, then how come the FBI said to drop it?”
“Hunter!” Mom snaps.
Dad shrugs. “Leigh, he has a point.”
Uncle Nate takes another pull on his beer before answering. “You shouldn’t read too much into the FBI’s reluctance to devote resources to this matter. That doesn’t mean it’s not important.”
“What does it mean, then?”
“The Bureau normally doesn’t get involved in something like this. Initially, cyberbullying—or any juvenile crime—is usually handled by the local jurisdiction. The federal criminal courts aren’t designed to handle juvenile matters the way the states are.”
Dad frowns. “Then why did you step in? Don’t get me wrong—we’re grateful. But what was the point?”
“Well, it’s not as if we never get involved. For instance, when the jurisdiction in question can’t or won’t proceed with a matter—or if it’s a particularly serious case—we have the option to handle it federally.”
“But this wasn’t a serious case. Isn’t that what they told you at work?” Hunter presses.
“I consider a death threat serious, pal.”
Hunter scoffs. “Kill yourself isn’t a death threat. People say that all the time.”
“Really? Your friends go around telling one another to commit suicide?” Mom gasps.
“Not in person. But online, sure, people say it all the time.”
“That’s abhorrent, Hunter.”
He shrugs. “You don’t understand gaming culture, that’s all, Mom.”
She harrumphs. “Well, I don’t know about the culture of the games you play, but this was on a school message board. That McCandless boy crossed a line.”
Dad turns to Uncle Nate. “About that—the police officer says the district attorney has to drop the case against Colin McCandless because, even though his user name is right there on the comment, there’s no proof that he’s the one who posted the message. I thought the FBI said there was?”
Dad asks the question in a mild voice, but Mom shoots him a dark look. Before she can say anything, though, the doorbell rings. She gets up to get the pizza and pay the delivery driver.
Uncle Nate answers Dad. “I heard there was some irregularity in the evidence, but I don’t know the details. I plan to follow up with Officer Hill because, I assure you, our computer forensics experts don’t make mistakes.”
Mom pauses in the doorway, balancing the pizza boxes against her hip. “Why don’t you come on into the dining room and we can talk about this? Hunter, you wash your hands first.”
When Hunter walks into the dining room, drying his hands on his pants, Uncle Nate’s halfway through an explanation about how the technicians determined the post came from Colin’s phone.
Mom motions for Hunter to sit down and slides two slices of pizza onto his plate. “Well, as I understand it, the post may have been made from that specific telephone number, but it isn’t registered to Colin McCandless.”
Uncle Nate pauses, his folded-over slice hovering over the table, halfway to his mouth. “The police are saying the mobile carrier gave us bad information? That’s odd. It’s an easy enough task on their end.”
“What’s the number?” Hunter asks, suddenly interested.
“Oh, honey, what difference does it make?” She waves a hand in the air.
“He might know whose number it is,” Uncle Nate points out. He reaches into his jacket pocket, takes out a tiny spiral notebook, and flips it open to read off the number.
“Sorry, don’t know it,” Hunter lies.
He grabs his pizza and shoves the entire slice into his mouth so he won’t be able to answer any follow-up questions. Fricking snotty Siobhan. He should’ve known. For a moment he wonders why she’d want to pin it on her brother, but then he realizes he doesn’t actually care. He keeps his head down and chews.
“Hmm. It’s interesting …” Uncle Nate muses.
“What is?” Mom leans forward.
“It turns out that your family isn’t the only one at the high school with an IC connection.”
“IC?” Mom wrinkles her forehead.
“And?”
Mom’s eyes bug out as Uncle Nate takes another bite of pizza. Hunter hides a smirk. She’s not exactly known for her patience, but Uncle Nate has to know that. He grew up with her, after all.
He chews and swallows before answering. “Well, her husband is pretty high up in the national security apparatus. I couldn’t get any details about his position—or even about his department. Just a lot of innuendo and winks and nods. Rumor has it he works directly for a guy named Hank Richardson.”
“So?”
“So, if that’s true, he’s a big deal. Richardson is supposed to have a top-secret director-level position, but nobody knows anything about it.”
“Are you telling me Colin’s uncle squashed your investigation?” The color rises on Mom’s neck and cheeks, along with her voice and her indignation.
“No, I’m saying it’s interesting to me that the McCandless boy also has an uncle who works in intelligence. That’s all.”
“But this lawyer could have called in a favor,” Mom insists.
“Sure. She could have. Just like you did,” Uncle Nate points out.
Mom huffs, “That’s outrageous, Nathan.”
Uncle Nate just shrugs. “It’s pretty understandable. People take care of family.”
Mom slams her hand down on the table hard enough that the water in Hunter’s glass splashes over the top.
“Leigh, calm down. You don’t even know if she did anything. It could all be a coincidence.” Dad pats her arm in an effort to soothe her.
She glares at his hand and he pulls it back fast. It’s funny how Hunter’s friends all think his dad is this big, hot-tempered guy. If they could see him now, they’d know who’s really in charge.
After dinner, Uncle Nate and Dad head down to the basement to play pool.
Mom smiles at Hunter. “Can you clean up for me while I check in with my campaign manager?”
“You have a campaign manager?”