Читать книгу Not Even Past - Dave White - Страница 17

MARTIN DROVE for miles without speaking. They cruised south on Route 18, out of New Brunswick, through East Brunswick, and into Old Bridge. He pulled off the highway and tracked through backroads Donne didn’t recognize. Soon they pulled into Union Beach, a town that had been hammered by Superstorm Sandy.

“Where are we going?” Donne finally asked, unable to wait out the silence anymore.

Martin didn’t speak, and his eye remained fixed on the road. Donne wasn’t sure why he’d even gotten into the car in the first place. Martin said they had work to do, and that seemed like enough for Donne at the time.

“Come on, Bill, tell me what’s going on.”

Martin stopped at a traffic light and reached down into his cup holder for his coffee cup. Took a long sip. The light changed green. Donne’s ears burned.

Three blocks later they parked in front of a one-story cape. It was the typical Jersey Shore house, right down to the rocks on the front lawn. Donne got out of the car and immediately smelled the salt from the sea. It brought back memories of Jeanne and his first vacation to Cape May. They only stayed three nights—it was all they could afford. But they hit every hot spot at night, and burned their skin to a crisp during the day.

“Come on,” Martin said. He walked up the front walk to the door and knocked.

“I think I’m owed an explanation,” Donne said.

Martin looked at the sky. “You think I’m going to drag your ass down here and keep quiet the whole time?”

“You didn’t say much on the ride.”

Martin said, “I’d rather focus on the road than listen to you prattle on.”

The door was answered by a woman in shorts and a T-shirt. It wasn’t Jeanne. This woman was older, and her shorts didn’t fit right, as if they’d shrunk in the wash. She was blond, her hair cut short.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Hi.” He motioned for Donne to come up with the walk.

Bill went into the house. As he passed the woman, his hand grazed her hip. Donne followed. The hallway smelled like old pipe tobacco and caramel.

“This is Eileen,” Martin said. “Eileen, Jackson Donne.”

Eileen blinked, then looked at Martin. Donne’s skin prickled. Not his favorite feeling.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Eileen said. “You’re going to log into your email and show me what Bill here was talking about. I’ll take a look and tell you where it was sent from.”

“Just like that?” Donne asked.

“Shut up and do what she says.” Martin shook his head. Eileen gave him half a smile. “You’re a two-year old.”

They followed Eileen into a room full of computers. Hard drives hummed, wires were taped to the wall or strewn across the carpet. Donne counted three modems and five monitors.

“Who are you?” Donne asked.

Eileen looked at Martin and said, “You’re right—he is two. Mr. Donne, have you read about the people in the government who’ve been tracking your Internet and phone records? I used to do that professionally. Now I do it privately.”

“You mean illegally.”

Eileen shrugged. “I still feel like a patriot.”

She gestured for Donne to sit down at the computer. He did. She told him to bring up his email. He did. Then she rolled Donne and his chair out of the way. She leaned over the computer and clicked around with the mouse. Occasionally she’d type on the keyboard. Donne tried to follow the flashes on the screen, but they flickered away too fast.

“I got a text too,” Donne said. He reached for his phone.

“I see that. I assume you don’t mean the one from Kate.”

Martin laughed. Donne glanced toward Martin. He wasn’t smiling. Donne rubbed at his wrist. The prickly feeling moved from his arms to the back of his neck.

“There’s a bodega in Perth Amboy,” Eileen said.

Donne turned back to her and saw Google Maps open on his screen.

“The email was sent from there.” Eileen shook her head. “Maybe not. This email is connected to that place.”

Donne didn’t even try to venture a thought as to what that meant.

“What about the website and the video? Can you tell where that was filmed?” Martin put his hand on her shoulder.

“Not yet. Working on it.” Eileen clicked a few more keys. “ I can see the code of it, when your computer connected to their camera. It was shot this morning.”

“Jesus,” Bill said.

Donne’s mouth ran dry. “Why would the video come from a bodega?”

Eileen sighed. “Here’s what I can tell you. The email was encrypted and pretty well. If I wasn’t so good at what I do … Listen, they sent it from a computer, and they’re professionals. They really didn’t want you to know where it was sent from. I’m still not 100 percent sure.”

“Then why did the text say I was needed?”

Eileen blinked. “Bill’s the detective.”

Another gust of sea air came through the window, and Donne flashed to Jeanne in Cape May. She was in a bra and panties, lying on the bed of their hotel room. She beckoned him.

Someone was beckoning him again.

“Maybe a couple of years ago, the kid would have figured it out,” Martin said.

Donne said, “It doesn’t matter. What’s the address of the bodega?”

Eileen started writing on a Post-it note.