On Borrowed Time (12 page)

L
indsey had not expected to have to call out of work to spend the day cleaning her apartment. Generally, cleaning ranked in the top five of her least favorite things to do and it was amazing how the chore of dusting could be usurped by a good book. Not today, however.

Thankfully, the crafternoon ladies all popped in and helped, and it wasn't long after Officer Wilcox left with his fingerprint kit and digital camera that order was restored. The most critical of all, of course, was making sure her books had not been harmed. Her first fear when she saw the pile on the floor had been that the person who had broken in had damaged the bindings and ripped the pages. After the bout of panicked nausea had passed and she discovered that they had thrown them on the floor in either a temper tantrum or to see if there was anything behind them, she felt like she could breathe again.

None of the books were rare editions or of any spectacular value beyond the sentimental, but they were hers and they comforted her and it hurt her to see them mistreated. As she placed the last of the books, an old edition of Dashiell Hammett's
The Thin Man
, back on the shelf beside her other favorite of his,
The Maltese Falcon
, she felt as if she were back in control of the situation.

“Lindsey,” Stew Hardy called to her from the front door. “Here are the keys to your new locks.”

Stew had moved to Briar Creek from Ansonia just a few months before Lindsey had been hired as the library director. He was somewhere in his sixties and lived alone with a parrot named Mojo, who liked to hang out on Stew's shoulder during the summer months and chat with the regulars at the bakery in town.

Despite being retired, Stew worked as a local handyman who specialized in locks. Lindsey knew he wasn't much of a reader, but he sure put the library DVD collection to good use, his favorites being superhero movies.

“Thanks, Stew,” she said. She took her new keys and jiggled them. “Did I tell you we got the new Avengers movie in yesterday?”

“Sweet!” Stew said. “I know I'm first on the list.”

“Yes, you are,” she said.

“When do you think it'll be ready?” he asked.

“I'm going to put a rush on it tomorrow,” she said. “Because I really can't thank you enough for this.”

“Ha! Wait 'til you get my bill,” he said. He laughed at his own joke, which made Lindsey smile, and then he nudged her with an elbow. “Just joshing. I'd never overcharge for something like this. Damn shame someone decided to pick on you.”

“Thanks, Stew,” she said.

“Listen.” He looked serious. “My locks are good, but you need to be careful. Got it?”

“I promise,” she said. She waved as he headed down the stairs, and then she turned to go back into her apartment. There were still gouges in the wooden door where it had been pried open. She quickly glanced away, realizing that was a chore for another day off.

Lindsey knew tonight was going to be a bit unsettling, but she was determined not to be freaked out in her own home, even though she was.

Mary Murphy hauled a garbage bag holding the remnants of Lindsey's couch pillows and dropped it just outside her front door.

“I think I got all of the pillow fill that was scattered,” she said. “Heathcliff was a big help, really.”

Lindsey smiled. She knew Heathcliff equated pillow innards with toys so she could only imagine what a help he had been.

“Dishes are washed,” Violet said as she joined them. “And I took the liberty of making a pot of coffee.”

“Terrific,” Nancy said. She gestured to a plastic container on the counter. “I brought some macaroons.”

Beth came out of the bedroom with a bucket and a sponge. “I think I got all the fingerprint dust residue off of your furniture.”

Violet and Charlene had taken on the chore of washing Lindsey's bed sheets and blankets, which had been thrown to the floor. They came out of the bedroom behind Beth, having just remade the bed.

“Your place is no longer sullied by the break in,” Violet announced.

“I truly can't thank you all enough,” Lindsey said. “It would have been a very long and scary day for me if I'd had to do this all by myself.”

“That's what friends are for,” Nancy said. She opened the lid off the macaroons and passed out some napkins.

Mary plunked six mugs down on the counter and began to pour the coffee while Violet put out the bowl of sugar and a small pitcher of milk.

Lindsey felt as if her throat was too tight with emotion to choke down a macaroon, but she gratefully reached for a mug of steaming hot coffee.

“So now that we're all together,” Beth said, “start talking.”

Lindsey sputtered on her coffee. She gave her friend a wide-eyed look. She loved her friends, but she didn't think it wise to talk to the entire group about her brother or his possible connection to the dead man or the break-in.

“So a sleepover at Sully's last night?” Mary asked.

Mary was Sully's little sister, so to say that this was uncomfortable was putting it mildly.

“What book was I supposed to be getting for our next crafternoon?” Lindsey asked. “Beth, you were lobbying for
The Secret Garden
, weren't you?”

“Yes, and I already have copies for all of us,” she said. “And that was the lamest attempt at a subject change ever.”

Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Does the word
awkward
mean anything to you?”

“Please, I'm a children's librarian. It's hard to define
awkward
when you dress like Babar the Elephant and do finger plays and felt boards every week,” she said.

“She has a point,” Violet said. She blew on the steaming coffee in her mug and asked, “So how did Robbie take the news?”

“What news?” Lindsey asked.

“That you and Sully are back together,” Charlene said. Both she and Violet gave Lindsey reproving looks, no doubt because Robbie was a longtime family friend.

“You are?” Nancy asked, looking delighted.

“Hold the phone,” Lindsey said. She held up her hands in a gesture to stop the crazy talk. “I fell asleep on Sully's couch. There is nothing, and I do mean nothing, else to report.”

The looks of disappointment were almost comical, except of course, for Charlene and Violet. They looked hopeful.

“Stop that!” Lindsey said to them.

“What?” the mother and daughter asked in unison.

“Thinking that I am going to take up with Robbie and give him a reason to stay in Briar Creek,” she said. “He's married, remember?”

“Kitty is just his business manager,” Charlene protested. “I'm sure he'll file the divorce papers now, especially if he knows it bothers you.”

Mild frustration had Lindsey biting a macaroon in two. “It doesn't bother me, because he and I are just friends.”

Nancy and Mary exchanged a pleased look.

“Sully and I are just friends, too,” Lindsey said, squashing their moment.

“Well, it must be nice to have two men interested in you,” Beth pouted. “Heck, I'd be happy if one man looked my way and wasn't swept off by some exotic beauty . . . ouch!”

Lindsey kicked her ankle to stop her from saying any more.

“Oh, was that your foot?” she asked. “Sorry.”

Beth frowned at her, but the others were already assuring her that she would meet someone someday.

“Beth, you are a wonderful woman,” Charlene said. “Any man would be happy to have you.”

“Really? Then I've been alone for over a year because why exactly?”

“Mostly because you picked a clunker and stayed with him for too long,” Nancy said. Beth looked about to protest, but Nancy shook her head. “I know he died a horrible death but really, dear, you need to have your boyfriends vetted. He was not a keeper.”

Beth sighed and rested her chin on her hand while she absently stirred her coffee. “You're right.”

“What about using an online dating service?” Mary asked. “I know of two couples who met that way and they seem very happy.”

“I tried,” Beth sighed. “The first guy wanted to know how much money I made. The other guy wanted me to send him proof that I owned my house. I'm telling you, ladies, it's just weird out there.”

“Maybe you could meet someone doing volunteer work,” Charlene said. “You could be a baby snuggler at Yale–New Haven Hospital or a dog walker at the Humane Society.”

“No,” Beth said. “I've tried all of that. I even attempted to join an adventure club where you go hiking and boating and do all sorts of cool stuff. Everyone was coupled off after the first two weeks and the cheese stood alone. In case you're wondering, I am the cheese, the stinky kind apparently.”

“Well, that's a good thing,” Nancy said. They all looked at her and she explained, “Cheese gets better with age.”

Beth burst out laughing. She hugged Nancy close and said, “And that is why I love you; you know just what to say.”

When the crafternoon ladies left, Lindsey sank down on her sofa and Heathcliff jumped up beside her and planted himself on her hip. He was a cuddly dog by nature, but she wondered if his canine sensors had picked up on the fact that things were not normal and he felt a need to keep close.

She scratched his head. “It's okay, buddy, we'll stick together and be just fine.”

But it wasn't fine. According to Emma, there was still no ID on the dead man in the library. Jack was missing, and no matter how many times she checked her phone, there was no text or e-mail from him to give her any peace of mind.

Now someone had broken into her home and they'd been looking for something. It certainly hadn't been a who, because they wouldn't have felt compelled to destroy all of her pillows and toss the place. No, this had definitely been a thing they were seeking, but what?

It was getting dark outside, and she knew she needed to feed Heathcliff and take him for a walk before settling in for the night. She sat staring out the windows that gave her a view of the bay and the islands, willing herself to get up.

A creak outside her door made her insides clench. Her pulse kicked into triple time and Heathcliff launched himself off the couch to charge the door with his ferocious barking growl fully engaged.

Lindsey crossed to the door. She figured she'd play it up just in case her destructive visitors had returned.

“Down, boy!” she ordered. “And don't go for the throat. If you kill again, they'll euthanize you for sure.”

Heathcliff cocked his head at her in a look that said more plainly than words that she was overselling it. Lindsey shrugged.

“Lindsey Norris, that is quite possibly the worst performance I've ever heard,” a man's voice with a distinctive British accent said through the door. “Now, let me in, I brought dinner.”

Lindsey yanked the door open and there stood Robbie Vine, carrying a large pizza and a bottle of wine.

“R
obbie!” She stepped aside to let him in. “What are you doing here?”

“Really?” he asked. “I thought the pizza box was a dead giveaway.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “Sorry, I'm not myself.”

“No, but your place looks put back to rights,” he said. “I was worried you might be nervous about being alone.”

He put the pizza and wine down on her coffee table, and took the time to scratch Heathcliff's head. The dog stood on his hind legs and hugged Robbie around the knee. It was a gesture the dog reserved for those he particularly liked, and it made Lindsey smile to see the Englishman was one of them.

“You didn't have to go to so much trouble,” she said. “I'm fine.”

“It was no trouble,” he said. “Dylan and I spent the afternoon looking at Yale's theater program, so it was a quick stop at Wooster Square for pizza, one of which he and his friends devoured on the ride back while I guarded this one for you and me.”

“I've seen teenagers eat,” Lindsey joked as she handed him the corkscrew. “You were taking your life into your hands there.”

“You've no idea,” he said with a wink.

Lindsey went back to the kitchen for plates and napkins. When she rejoined Robbie, he was sitting on the couch while pouring two glasses of wine.

Although Lindsey could have sworn she wasn't hungry, the smell of the white pizza from the famous brick oven pizza joint in New Haven made her mouth water.

Heathcliff sat at full alert until Robbie shared his crust with him. Lindsey found it small wonder that the dog adored the men in her life; they both spoiled him rotten.

“So do the police have any idea who ransacked your place or why?” he asked.

“Not that I've heard,” she said. She took a sip of wine and set her glass down.

“You're worried about your brother,” he said.

“I'm beside myself,” she admitted. “I just wish I could figure out who these people are that are after Jack, who the woman was who snatched him and the identity of the man who called me. I know that if I could just figure that out, then I'd have some sort of clue. I mean he's an economist, he's not James Bond.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asked.

“I'm not sure about anything anymore,” she said.

“What did he do for a living exactly?”

“I'm a book person, not a number person,” she said apologetically. “From what I understand, he consulted with companies and helped them drive sustainable growth using long-term strategy tools or something like that. The gist was that he was hired to boost the company's sales when it had stagnated.”

“So he was a hatchet man?” Robbie asked. “That could make him very unpopular.”

He took a bite of pizza and studied her face while she thought about his question.

Lindsey took another sip of wine. “No, he didn't go in and terminate employees. He mostly scrutinized the company's way of doing business, their leadership, the current market, and their profit margins. He then made recommendations on how they could improve.”

Lindsey took a bite of her own slice and chewed while she pondered the possibility that her brother's business was more dangerous than she had realized.

“Was he part of a company?” Robbie asked. “Did he have an office? Anyone you could call and ask?”

“When he graduated, he worked for a firm in Boston, but my brother is a roamer. He enjoyed working globally because he said it gave him a better feel for how businesses operated worldwide. He enjoyed immersing himself in different cultures.”

“Is there anyone who would know where he was most recently?” he asked.

“I—” Lindsey began but a fist pounding on her door interrupted whatever she was about to say.

“Expecting someone?” Robbie asked.

“No,” she said.

“Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away,” Robbie suggested.

The pounding resumed.

“Or not,” Lindsey said. “Excuse me.”

“Certainly,” Robbie said on a sigh and then downed his wine in one swallow.

Before Lindsey could reach the door, a familiar voice shouted, “Open up, Vine, I know you're in there.”

Lindsey's eyes went wide. She knew that voice. It was Sully, and while he rarely ever lost his temper, she could tell he was not happy.

She turned to look at Robbie, who shrugged. For one of the world's most talented actors, he did not sell it very well, and she narrowed her eyes as she studied him.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Robbie said.

“Hang on, Sully,” Lindsey said as she fussed with her new locks. “I'm opening up.”

No sooner had she pulled the door open than Sully strode into the room.

“I knew it!” he cried. “You set me up so you could take advantage of my absence.”

“Did you fall off your dingy and get water on the brain?” Robbie asked. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“I was on water taxi duty this evening, which is usually quite dead in the dark days of December, but no, I had three different calls for pick up out in the farthest islands in the bay, and, big shock, when I got to each one, no one had called for taxi service.”

Lindsey turned from Sully to Robbie. “You didn't.”

“I refuse to answer that on the grounds that I might incriminate myself,” he said.

“Why you . . .” Sully lifted his hands like he was about to throttle the other man.

Robbie, being quicker on his feet than most, managed to keep the wide coffee table between them. “Hey, you got to spend a whole night with her. I was just evening it up a bit.”

“I almost froze out there, not to mention the amount of gas I wasted for nothing,” Sully said. He looked like he was going to lunge across the table but instead he snatched a piece of pizza from the box.

“Bill me,” Robbie said.

“Oh, I will,” Sully said. “But now you can leave, since I think it's my turn to watch Lindsey.”

“The night's not half over,” Robbie protested.

“It is for you,” Sully said.

Lindsey rolled her eyes at Heathcliff. Enough was enough. She picked up the box of pizza and shoved it at Sully. Then she maneuvered so that she was behind both of them. With one hand on each of their backs, she applied a steady pressure until she had them out the door and into the hallway.

“I can't tell you how lovely it's been, really,” she said. “Now good night.”

She shut the door in their faces.

“Well, you certainly managed to bollocks that up,” Robbie snapped.

“I managed to?” Sully argued. “What was the big idea sending me out on a fool's errand?”

“Your words, not mine,” Robbie said. “I'm an actor. I can't help it if I'm no good at strategy.”

Lindsey wondered if they would stand there and bicker all night. She opened her door a crack and said, “Good night, gentlemen.”

With sulky glances, they obviously took her meaning and began to walk down the stairs. She noted they were sharing the remains of the pizza and took that as a good sign.

She did check the lock on her door once to make sure she and Heathcliff were safely locked in. Then she did a quick scan of all of her window locks. Yes, the break-in had given her a case of the wiggins. There was no doubt about it.

She finished her glass of wine and took the empty plates to the kitchen to be rinsed. She ran the conversation she'd had with Robbie through her mind. It bothered her that she didn't know as much about her brother's business as she should. What kind of sister had only the vaguest clue as to what her brother did for a living?

She went over to her small desk by the window. It was fully dark outside and the living room lights reflected the room on the window glass, making it hard to see out but easy to see in. A sense of caution zipped over her nerves. She reached over and closed the thick curtain.

She sat at her small desk and opened her laptop. She scrupulously saved all the e-mails she received from her brother in a file appropriately labeled “Bro.” It took her computer a minute to get going.

Last year, Lindsey had attended a cybercrimes workshop put on by the state library association. Being providers of the Internet to the public at large, libraries were finding that some users knew how to hack the filters that were put in place to keep the computers in the library safe for all users.

One of the many things the detective teaching the class had taught them was how they could trace a criminal user back to the library by tracing the IP address, which stood for Internet Protocol address, a numerical label assigned to every computer, printer and other device within a network. Lindsey had never really thought the information would come into play in her life, but now she wondered. If Jack had been using a foreign network when he e-mailed her, she might be able to trace where he had been most recently by locating the origin of the IP address.

Lindsey opened the file from the workshop that listed the websites that could help her trace Jack's IP. Then she opened her personal e-mail and frowned. How was she supposed to figure out his IP address from an e-mail? She switched back to her notes. Sure enough, scribbled in the margin were notes for just that.

She chose an option she had never noticed before that read “show original.” Bingo! A bunch of cybertext came up on her screen that read like gobbledygook to her, so Lindsey figured it must be right.

She checked her notes. She cut and pasted the gook onto the query screen of a website that said it would track the IP. It came back a second later with a message that said it was unreadable. She checked and trimmed her original cut from the recognizable words “return path” to “content.” She sent the query again. This time a chart came up.

Lindsey had to pause to pump her fist. She was pretty sure any computer-savvy ten-year-old could have done this in half the time, but still she had managed it. She felt the need to let out a nerdy “Woot!” before she got back to work.

She checked her notes again and logged on to the website that could track an IP address. Success was short lived. The first few websites she tried couldn't find the IP. She tried another and another. No luck.

She needed something more to go on. She opened up her e-mail and read her brother's messages. Jack was not one to post much more than “Hey, I'm alive!” which, while reassuring when she hadn't heard from him, was also very annoying because it really gave her no details as to where he was or what he was doing.

Usually, the only way she discovered where he'd been was when her birthday or Christmas rolled around and a box that looked as battered as if it had walked all the way from its destination to her house arrived and inside she would find anything from a Tibetan singing bowl to a Costa Rican string bracelet.

“Jack,” she said to the miserly list of e-mails in her Bro file, “when I see you again, we are going to have a very long talk about communication, your lack thereof, and how you will improve or face my wrath.”

Finally, in the fifth e-mail she scanned, there was a kernel of information. His closing sentence read,
Linds, I'm south of the border consulting on plantas de café. Hope to be home for the holidays. L, Jack.

Jack spoke at least four languages fluently and a smattering of others. It was one of the reasons he liked to be a global business consultant—he got to dust off his language skills. Lindsey had always thought that his use of the language of the country he was headed to was him showing off, but now she was grateful. It was the first solid lead she'd gotten. It fit, too, as the woman who'd absconded with him had an accent and she was clearly a beauty, a Latin beauty.

So Jack had to have been in a Spanish-speaking country and was there assisting with a company that produced coffee. At least, given her college Spanish, she hoped
plantas de café
meant coffee plants. She supposed she could use an online translator, but it seemed pretty obvious.

Lindsey rubbed her eyes. Sleeping on Sully's couch had been fitful, since she was worried about her brother, freaked out that someone had followed them, and frankly, distracted by how close Sully had been. Her exhaustion was catching up to her and she yawned.

She logged on to the library's website. She needed a quick business breakdown about the coffee industry. Ironic how much a cup of java would help her right now, she thought. She chose the “Business Insights: Essentials” option and typed in a search for the coffee industry.

Under the subheading “Roasted Coffee,” she read all about the history of coffee, the difference between the arabica and robusta beans, the importance of storage and roasting, and a multitude of other facts. Finally, in a small paragraph toward the bottom, she saw the listing for the countries where it is grown, with Brazil leading the way by producing one third of the world's coffee.

Brazil. So maybe
plantas de café
was not Spanish so much as Portuguese. She sincerely hoped so. Either way, she knew her next step was to find and search a Latin IP address registry.