Page 29 of Accidental Murder
So much for being invisible.
“I can’t get over how much you look like your sister,” Mrs. Tennyson said. “I imagine you want to go inside. The policehaven’t been by in an hour. A photographer was here earlier with forensic people and specialists from Abacus Ink.”
Abacus Ink was a well-known Bay Area firm that had built its reputation on catching hackers and corporate spies. Had the police brought the firm in to confiscate her computers, or had the technicians completed the work on site and kept them in place? What if Hanrahan hoped to trap Kayla because she knew Kayla was, indeed, Kayla and not Ashley? The memory of Hanrahan staring after her as she left the precinct sent a shiver down her spine.
Mrs. Tennyson continued, “The driver for Abacus Ink was a real talker, and you know me—well, no, you don’t know me as well as Kayla did—but I love to get the scoop.”
“Were they here long?”
“Two hours. One of them exited with a bundle of equipment.”
“A bundle as in a lot?”
“More like a suitcase full.” Mrs. Tennyson zipped the jacket on her running suit. “Chilly, isn’t it? I’ll bet the cold air is whisking into the townhouse through the rear window in the alley. The firemen carelessly left it open.” She winked at Kayla. “Why, I even believe the gutter man forgot his ladder.”
Gutter man? Of course. Darius Ventano could have guessed about the ladder because of the time of year. Gutter guys worked around the clock cleaning leaves out of troughs.
“By the by, the police make their rounds every hour or so, but they never exit their vehicles. I can keep an eye out.” She blew her whistle once. The dog trotted to her side and sat. “Two toots, beware. Three toots, danger.”
Without wasting another second, Kayla ran to the alley. She needed to know what the Abacus Ink people seized. She found the ladder lying on the ground, propped it against the charred wall, kicked off her high heels, and legs straining at the hem of her skirt, climbed the rungs. She straddled the sill and crawledinside. The moment her feet hit the floor, memories of Ashley lying beneath the desk ripped through her. She urged herself to keep it together and surveyed the room.
Bits and pieces of a smashed computer monitor lay on the floor. The inner workings of three computers she used regularly to duplicate the operating systems of her clients’ computers lay open and exposed, the insides extracted, the hard drives confiscated. The laptop holding her clients’ information was gone.
She wilted until she remembered the thumb drives hidden in the safe under the floorboards of the office closet. Before going to dinner with Ashley on Monday, as she did every Monday, she’d backed up everything. Had the police uncovered her stash?
Just as she was accessing the safe—not a small feat since she had to pull out shoeboxes, lift the floorboards, and unlock the safe with a 3-2-1 style combination—two shrill toots resounded.Beware!
Kayla stole to the front of the house and peeked through the break in the drapes. Mrs. Tennyson was talking to a young policeman by a patrol car. She was clutching his elbow. He shifted weight, eager to be free, but Mrs. Tennyson, bless her soul, was thwarting his investigation.
Getting a move on, Kayla returned to the office, lifted a canvas backpack from the closet, dumped her toolkit and the box of thumb drives into it, and closed and covered up the safe. Shrugging on the backpack, she hustled to the window. She slung a leg over the sill. At the same time, she heard footsteps. On the front porch.
A police siren blared.
Her adrenaline kicked into overdrive.
Seconds later, she heard whoever it was on the porch retreating. Had Mrs. Tennyson activated the cop’s siren as a ruse? If so, bravo.
Not waiting to find out what had transpired, Kayla clambered down the ladder, snapped up her high heels, and dashed to the Acura.
On the way to Ashley’s place, the cell phone beeped. Ashley had received a voicemail message, but the phone required a password to retrieve it.
What the heck was it? Kayla and Ashley had the same cellular provider. She tried the password supplied upon sale:1-2-3-4. When that didn’t work, she reversed the order and pressed4-3-2-1. No go. Then she remembered Ashley’s pronouncement that if she could, she would remain twenty-two years old forever. Kayla had hated being that age, fresh out of college, with no confidence. She tapped the number two four times. The cell phone menu opened to the main screen. She pressed the telephone icon, followed by the voicemail icon. One new message appeared. From Peter.
His voice blasted through the car’s speaker. “Babe, my dad told me what happened. I’m sorry about Kayla. How horrible. What can I say? Call me at my hotel. My cell phone tanked. I can’t catch a plane until late tomorrow. Airports don’t like sudden changes. I . . . ” He hesitated. “I love you.”
Kayla pulled to the side and scanned the telephone number Peter used. It was international, starting with 011 33. France’s code. She considered calling the number displayed but decided against it.
The sight of a mini mart made her think of Java. She pulled into the parking lot. Inside, she purchased canned cat food.
Back at Ashley’s place, after feeding her beloved companion, Kayla ate a paltry meal of French bread and water—she didn’t deserve better than prison rations—and then she moved into Ashley’s bedroom. She set the backpack on the bed and nibbled while examining her sister’s computer.
Java, satisfied with his new digs and stuffed from a Fancy Feast meal, brushed his torso against Kayla’s ankles. He purred as if to ask what was wrong, not understanding why she was swearing like a banshee.
“The USB port is wobbly,” she explained.
Too exhausted to venture to an office store to purchase other supplies she needed, she decided to give in to sleep. Tomorrow, after the memorial service, she would finish what she’d started.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
