Interpreter for the Dead Read online

  Crawling headfirst down into the vent system, the sheet metal pressed in on him from all four sides, popping and groaning as he snaked along. If only the guys who did the ductwork for the movies had done this one - there would have been room for him and all his buddies from Cellblock D.

  A flimsy grate blocked his entrance to Caywood's office suite. The place was dark and deserted, the only source of light the streetlamp. No sign of an alarm system.

  Working the angle iron under the edge of the grate, the screws gave way, tearing gaping holes in the drywall where they'd been anchored. The grate spun out of his fingers, danced across the top of a bookcase, and came to a rest right at the edge. A trail of little white tracks marked its trajectory.

  Nothing like leaving a little fingerprinted calling card to let Caywood know he'd been there.

  A dull pain started at the back of his neck as he began pushing himself forward through the opening. It was going to be a long night.

  A water pipe near the ceiling gave him a handhold as he awkwardly wiggled his way out of the vent and lowered himself down to the bookcase. He felt it move beneath him. It dipped forward, and then lightly slammed back against the wall. After it steadied, he climbed down it.

  Remembering the old adage to clean as you go, he covered his tracks now while he had the chance.

  He stuffed tissue paper into the holes in the drywall and tossed the debris in the shaft, then seated the grate in the tissue paper anchors. He was relieved to see that it covered the damage. Using his shirtsleeve, he wiped off the top of the bookcase and all of the shelves.

  The scent of flowery potpourri mixed with cheap cologne lingered in the air, making him sneeze.

  Caywood hadn't bothered with alarms, but there was a paper shredder mounted to the top of every trashcan and the filing cabinets and desk drawers were locked, though not for long. Especially since the keys were sitting right on the top of the cabinet.

  He decided to get started on the computers. The power lights for the Caywood's CPU and the monitor glowed green, but the screen was black. Dane went over the entire system, checking cords and connections, looking for any signs of hidden security features. When it finally dawned on him, he had to smile. The contrast knob for the monitor had simply been turned all the way to zero.

  Not having anything on him to copy the computer's hard drive to, Dane opened up a web browser and surfed to his own personal website. The browser hung there, not loading the page. Finally his login screen popped up. The site was still there, one thing the Feds hadn't found yet, thankfully. He had a store of special programs at the ready, waiting to be downloaded and installed from any location with Internet access. The programs were electronic keys to electronic locks. The true inner workings were a mystery to him, but Dane didn't need to know how to make them in order to use them. He left that to the high-paid code jockeys locked up in cubicles far away.

  The first program he installed was one that would give him remote access, allowing him passage back inside the realtor's computer without actually having to ever touch it again. His website server would be the gateway. Staying connected risked exposure, but he had no choice. The next program installed would record whatever he might miss. Called Key Loggers, every keystroke would be reported back to his server.

  As the software loaded, Dane scoured the desk near the front door. Hello Kitty memorabilia, a wide assortment of tacky nail polishes, and 5x7 of a burly lumberjack in jeans and a tank top. Probably the secretary's desk, but he wasn't making any bets. It was Boulder after all.

  Dane downloaded and installed his software onto her machine as well.

  So far, the realtor was guilty of nothing more than bad taste. The second hand furniture was accented by a mishmash of zoning maps, travel posters, and an oversized year-at-a-glance wall calendar provided by some anonymous insurance company.

  He took a closer look at the calendar. Someone had highlighted the last week in May. The week his father had died. The words 'Las Vegas Convention @ Luxor' were written in a woman's plump, cutesy script.

  The realtor had been seven hundred miles away the day his father died, and the three days before and after. The symmetry bothered him. The calendar being otherwise unmarked bothered him, too. Too much like a neon sign blinking buy me, buy me.

  The only way Dane would buy it was if it could be backed up with ticket stubs or a credit card receipt. Sitting back down at Caywood's desk, he looked over the desk blotter where the realtor had scribbled various notes. One in particular caught his eye.

  McConnell $$$.

  Headlights moved across the window. Parting the shade slightly, he saw Caywood hop out of his Cadillac and run to the passenger side with an umbrella.

  A petite brunette dressed head-to-toe in pink emerged, Caywood shielding her with the umbrella as they trotted towards the building.

  "You have got to be kidding me!"

  Sprinting to the computers, he shut his software down and lowered the contrast knob on each monitor back to zero.

  He scaled the bookcase, nearly knocking it over, and ripped the grate off. He stuffed it in the front of his shirt, and grabbed the water pipe to hoist himself into the vent. He had to slide in feet first, on his back. Dane's height made the move damn near impossible, especially at such a breakneck pace.

  The water pipe dipped and creaked under the pressure, almost giving way as he lifted himself up.

  Keys jingled on the other side of the office door.

  Like barbs on a fishhook, the overlaps in the vent sections caught his shirt, preventing him from going the way he'd come. His shoulders and head were still sticking out of the opening. With a forceful thrust, he tore the shirt and got himself all the way in.

  He dug the grate out of his shirt, lifting it over his head backwards in the narrow space between the top of the vent and his face. It clattered as he tried to line it up with the original screw holes. Upside down, none-the-less.

  The door slammed shut, and Dane heard the woman giggle.

  "Stop! Stop it, you're so bad." Her voice was high-pitched and squeaky.

  "Come on Vivian. Don't be a tease."

  Sweat trickled down Dane's face as he struggled to hold the grate evenly. The tips of his fingers stuck out of the slats, but there was nothing he could do, other than pray they didn't look up. The space inside the vent was hot and damp, thanks to his body heat and the moisture coming from his wet clothes. The whiskey buzz gone, his headache had ramped up a notch to a full-blown migraine.

  "Where were you today? You know how hard it is for me to get out at night!" The high-pitched voice was like nails on a chalkboard, sending a jolt through his aching head.

  "Viv, I told you. I had to meet Bill out in Cottonwood. Then Ansel called me because that damn Dane kid got busted. If he screws me over on this, I'll kill him."

  She shushed him.

  "It's going to be alright. Don't worry. You told me yourself he doesn't care about that property. It doesn't matter whether he's in jail or not, he can still sell it to the group, right?"

  "He damn well better. I really put myself out on the line on this whole deal. Ansel was pissed."

  "Come on. Let's get the show on the road. You know Ronnie won't wait."

  He began to wonder if he died in there, how long it would take for them to find him. Probably however long it took for the stench of his decaying body to overpower cheap cologne and potpourri.

  A cell phone went off, its ring a snippet of "Oops, I Did It Again".

  A few seconds of moaning passed before she finally gave in and answered it.

  "Hey, Ronnie."

  Apparently Ronnie really wouldn't wait.

  "I told you I had to run to the store. What? No, no I'll be home soon. Love you too." She hung up and slammed the phone down on the desk.

  "I gotta go."

  "Don't be late tomorrow Viv. I need you to make some calls before ten."

  Viv rushed home to her beloved Ronnie.

  The muscles in Dane's arms had be
gun to fatigue. Much longer and he'd be unable to keep the grate in place.

  Caywood shuffled around the office, doing god knows what. After what seemed like an eternity, the lights went out and the door clicked shut. Dane forced himself to count to a hundred before dropping the grate. His muscles had so atrophied he found it hard to pull himself back out of the vent.

  Now it was time to clean up his mess.

  He reset the grate, wiped everything down, and hit the door running.

  Chapter 16

  "Guess I should've got a car alarm."

  "Don't feel bad. Wouldn't have made any difference," Dane replied, as he walked into AJ's office.

  "The only thing I feel bad about is being stupid enough to let you trick me into tampering with evidence," AJ shot back.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Lady was poisoned. Somebody fed her anti-freeze. The only way you could have known is if you had something to do with it."

  "I didn't know. I suspected."

  Before she could reply, he cut her off.

  "You don't think I did it AJ. It's written all over your face. Don't try and con a con."

  "I don't know what to think. All roads still lead to you. You're the only one getting anything out of your father's death."

  He was surprised by his own anger, and it took everything he had to keep himself from lashing out at the accusation.

  She was right, up to a point.

  "We've been over this. I didn't even know he was dead until Caywood came to Vail and told me. Trust me, up until a few weeks ago, money was the least of my problems."

  "Trust you?"

  "What I would get out of this is nothing compared to what could be made by someone with the right connections. Caywood has a developer waiting in the wings already."

  She set her jaw and stared him down, unwilling to accept what he was saying.

  "You really think I did it? Call the police. Give me the cell phone. I'll do it for you. I'll tell the cops everything I told you. Then you can watch them come back out and arrest me on suspicion of murder one."

  "Michael-"

  "Hell, the prosecutor won't have anything to lose by calling for an inquest. What harm could it do to exhume an old man's body and do an autopsy?"

  "Michael-"

  "And if they find meth in his system, I'm sure they'll just ask me a few questions, take my word for everything and let me go."

  "Stop it."

  "And I'm sure whoever really did it will feel so bad about it they'll just turn themselves in."

  "Michael, I'm sorry."

  "For what? Reaching the same conclusions as anyone else? Don't lose any sleep over it. I won't."

  "We have to tell the police."

  Dane nodded.

  "You have to tell the police. But I'd appreciate it if you waited until tomorrow morning. I need to put some distance between me and Colorado."

  She looked at him, incredulous.

  "Somebody may have murdered your father and your response is to leave?"

  Dane turned on her, his voice a mix of barely controlled rage and frustration.

  "Did you hear anything I just said? I'm already number one on everybody's shit list. The only thing I'll get by staying is most likely a murder charge."

  She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.

  "Dad was right. He said I was wasting my time, said you'd end up leaving. But to know someone killed your father-"

  "Damn it AJ, I don't know anything! Somebody got tired of some mongrel digging up their flowerbed and fed it antifreeze. Sad, but shit happens. Long leap of faith between that and somebody taking out some old man."

  He caught her hand less than inch from the side of his face, surprised at the strength in it.

  AJ yanked her hand free in one quick move, and stepped close enough he could feel the heat of her breath on his face.

  "They weren't some mongrel and some old man. Whatever they were to you, they meant something to me. Nobody, nobody talks about my friends like that."

  She started to tear up, shaking her head at herself now.

  "I can't believe I actually let you talk me into believing you. Now you're standing there trying to convince me you're wrong. Or maybe you're trying to convince yourself? I don't know."

  A frustrated sigh escaped her.

  "Damn it Michael, I want some answers."

  He nodded his head in agreement.

  "So do I. That's why I broke into Caywood's office."

  "What! You used my truck to commit a felony?"

  "No. I used your truck to drive into Boulder. I used a piece of metal to commit breaking and entering - barely more than a misdemeanor."

  "At this time of night?"

  "I didn't go there to talk."

  AJ gasped.

  "You're bleeding."

  Surprised, Dane pulled up his sleeve to reveal a large gash.

  "Jesus. Tell me I didn't leave blood all over Caywood's office. I must have cut myself crawling through the vent."

  She took a step toward him and he nearly toppled over backwards in his chair, not sure what she was doing until she reached out and grabbed his arm and yanked the sleeve back up.

  "You can't just leave a cut open like that. Keep your arm up."

  AJ circled the room with a cart, filling it with bottles and chromed instruments.

  "What are you doing?"

  Stopping at the sink, she turned on the water and scrubbed her hands so hard Dane thought she was going to tear the skin.

  "I should let you get an infection. It'd serve you right using my truck to go commit a crime."

  She snapped on a pair of latex gloves, looking down on him unamused.

  "Hey, we barely even know each other," he said, hands up in protest.

  Dane grimaced as she poured the contents of a suspicious looking brown bottle onto his wound.

  Iodine, and it hurt like hell.

  "Jesus Christ! I'm sorry about the truck, already! Are you trying to torture a confession out of me?"

  He tried to rise, but pressure from her thumb into the back of his hand sat him back in his seat.

  "This will be a whole lot easier if you sit still."

  "No anesthesia?"

  "I save the good stuff for paying customers."

  AJ slowly brought the flaps of skin back together, pausing only to switch on a table lamp for more light. She secured the cut with a butterfly bandage.

  "Not your first trip through someone else's ductwork I see," she said, running her finger along the scar on his upper arm.

  "Something like that."

  He could thank his father for that one.

  "What did you find out at Caywood's?"

  Illuminated by the lamplight, her eyes were bottle-green, ringed with flecks of copper. He hadn't noticed before.

  He cleared his throat. "Not enough. I need to go back."

  To find out more about Caywood and Oren McConnell.

  She glanced at him with those green eyes, and he felt his cheeks turn warm before she turned her attention back to his wound.

  "Do you think that's a good idea?"

  Her breath was cool on his skin.

  "It's my only idea."

  Chapter 17

  Dane got up early the next morning and drove into Boulder unshowered, unshaven and too hung over to give a damn.

  He stopped at a gas station, paid twice what he should have for a bottle of aspirin and a cup of coffee, and then continued on to the Boulder Public Library.

  Throngs of people were already gathered near the entrance by the time he found a parking space and joined them. The crowd was divided between the homeless seeking refuge from the heat, and clean-cut college students who bided the time with bran muffins and double mocha lattes. Nine o'clock and it already felt like being in a greenhouse. He chased down the aspirin with gulps of coffee.

  The automatic doors whooshed open and the crowd swept inside. Dane followed the ponytails and backpacks through the lobby an
d up the stairs. All the public computers were already taken, so Dane found himself waiting once again, sixth in line. He reminded himself that such was the price he had to pay for anonymity and popped a few more aspirin.

  His mind attempted to make sense of all that had happened.

  Your father was murdered is what happened.

  He was still unable to get his mind around the idea of someone killing his father for a piece of real estate. It seemed a very complicated way to get rid of somebody, too little reward for too much risk.

  The line shuffled forward and he was pulled back to the present by a string of four-letter words coming from a cheerleader-type at one of computers.

  "What's wrong?" her friend asked, popping a bubble.

  "It's asking for my stupid library card number."

  "So?"

  "So, duh. I didn't bring it. Fuck, I just want to surf the Internet, not check out a book."

  "Welcome to Nazi Germany," said the guy on the next computer over, pointing to the sign explaining the recent change in policy. "They want to know if you're trying to build a nuke."

  "Or donating to the Sierra Club," chimed another.

  So much for anonymity, thought Dane, watching them leave.

  Asking the person behind him to save his spot while he went to the restroom, Dane went to the book stacks instead. He pulled down books at random and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for and then got back in line.

  Dane logged on to a computer ten minutes later, using the library card number listed on the printed receipt that Gordon W. Metcalf had used as a bookmark and so carelessly left behind.

  Dane navigated through two proxy servers, and then reached his web server. He began going through Caywood's entire computer remotely.

  The good stuff on Caywood's computer was in folders labeled 'Tax Codes' and 'Real Estate Terminology'. Neither one contained anything having to do with the folder titles, a rather weak security measure that Dane had come across too many times to fall for.

  'Tax Codes' was in reality a dossier on every man and woman and child in Cottonwood. Besides listing known assets and debts, the list included personal information about religious beliefs, places of employment, friends, habits and even police records. He looked at the information Caywood had on him. He realized that the whole thing with the interpreter at the county jail had been a show when he saw the note not deaf next to his name.