MURDER TUNED IN (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 4) Page 5

  "Can I see that?"

  "Sure. If you're interested in how they look when they're tied, I'd say it looks like that one in the photo'd been tied for a long time."

  "Really?"

  "Pretty positive."

  She looked at the knot he'd tied for her, then inspected the rest of the untied rope. On either end was a piece of colored tape wound around it like the plastic at the end of a shoelace.

  "Why this?"

  "It's an old stagehand trick. Keeps the ends from fraying. But there's another reason. You put two different colored pieces of tape in order to distinguish one end from another. Safety precaution. You always have to tie these things the same way, and sometimes you're working in the dark."

  "Really."

  "Yeah. Right over left, left over right. That's a square knot. You can't tie it any other way. No stagehand would tie it any other way. Same with a bowline. There's a certain way you have to do it."

  "Huh. That's very interesting," Allie said, looking closely at the rope. She then looked all around the theater at the myriad ropes hanging all around, some suspending weights and balances, some moored to the pin rail, and some performing functions she couldn’t even guess at.

  She held up the rope he'd tied for her. "Can I hold onto this for a little while?"

  "Sure thing. Hang on." He reached into his work belt and pulled out a utility knife. This he used to cut the rope cleanly into a two-foot long section. "Want me to tape that up for you?"

  "Not necessary. Thank you."

  "Anything else you need, you let me know."

  #

  "Look closely at this photo." Allie and Del walked to Allie's car and paused in the middle of the almost-empty parking lot.

  "What am I looking at?"

  "What do you see?"

  "I see a rope."

  "What about it?"

  "It looks worn."

  "More than worn," said Allie. "It's been milked. That's what they call it when the sheath becomes detached from the rope's core. Look even more closely. You see this? It's been twisted in a certain direction."

  "I don’t see it."

  Allie felt her frustration growing. "Look closely. Don’t look at the knot. Look at the rest of the rope."

  "Yeah, I'm looking. I see a used, messed up rope."

  Allie took a heavy breath. "Look. Hold out your hand."

  Del did as she was told and Allie slipped the sample of rope Ernie had given her around it.

  "Watch," she said, as she began to twist the rope gently. "See how it has already been twisted in this direction?"

  "Ok, now I see it. What does that prove?"

  "Watch how I'm twisting it. Clockwise. It's only natural when using a garrote to grasp it with one hand facing up and the other facing down. The one facing up is the dominant hand, because that's the hand that has the strength required to strangle someone, which is how it was done here." She pointed to the photo. "The rope twists clockwise. You can see it right there in the photo. I was right. We're looking for a left-handed killer."

  2.

  As soon as she got into her car, Allie's phone alerted her to a text. From 000, she knew exactly who it was. Her heart raced slightly when she read it.

  Swordfish. 8:00

  She hadn’t seen the secret code she shared with Sgt. Frank Beauchenne's to arrange a meeting in quite some time. It meant that there was something he needed her to do. Perhaps something only she had access to.

  She had to admit to herself that she felt a bit queasy about Tad Mills being a possible suspect. She liked Tad, had gotten a good vibe from him. But she was smarter than that. She knew you can't always trust a good vibe. Still, the thought pained her. And something about this case gnawed at her in that way she'd come to recognize: That all was not right in the way things appeared to the naked eye.

  The shadows cast by the full moon were well-defined, twisted, and eerie, as if cast by withered old trees possessed by evil spirits.

  Sgt. Beauchenne was already waiting for her there. She had been immensely grateful to the powers that be when she'd pulled up next to his squad car. She didn’t feel much like waiting alone.

  He was standing amidst the shadows, looking like some sort of wizard taking command of the night. He was sexy in the moonlight, she thought.

  Enough, she told herself. You're not falling for him.

  "Got some news for you," said Beauchenne. "We found traces of haloperidol in her system."

  "Wait. I think I know that. Why does that sound familiar?"

  "Your husband's colleagues may have mentioned it from time to time. Better known as Haldol. It's normally used to—"

  "Psychological disturbances."

  Beauchenne smiled. "One of these days you're gonna stop being smarter than I am. Yes, it's used to treat psychological disturbances. Severe psychological disturbances. At smaller doses it can cause drowsiness. This was a dose that you would give to an average patient in need. What I'm saying is that was a good tip on your part, running the toxicology report. They found that the Haldol was administered around the same time as the alcohol in her system, causing a bad combination of side effects."

  "So, I was right. She had to have been drugged in order for the killer to get the rope around her without a fuss."

  Beauchenne rubbed the back of his neck. "Looks to be that way. My God, what I wouldn’t give for a vacation."

  She looked at his tired face. "Are you ok?"

  "I'm getting too old for this job. Too old to watch guys like Tomlin brown-nose their way to promotions and then do a terrible job once they get them."

  "That means they need you more than ever, Frank. You can’t retire yet."

  "Oh, you're calling the shots now?"

  She flashed him a flirty smile. "Don’t act like you don’t love it."

  He chuckled. "Well I don’t. Besides, and I say this with all the affection in my heart, you don’t know what it's like having to go to a civilian for help on a case."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "Stop that. You know what I mean. I shouldn’t have to go to you. I should be putting all my trust in Tomlin. But we all know what a mistake that would be."

  "You think Chief Fraser will understand if you told him everything you just told me, disregarding the part about all the affection in your heart, of course."

  "He might. He's got a low threshold for B.S. Anyway, I'm going to need you to check up on something. Tomlin's got his hooks in on this one and the Chief wants to see how he performs. So I've been told to back off a bit and let him work. But that doesn’t mean I can’t just happen to come across information when I'm on my own. You know, at random."

  "I get it," Allie said. "What do you need from me?"

  Beauchenne looked as though he was hesitating. "We need you to take a close look at your friend Tad."

  Allie cocked her head to one side. "Ok."

  "We need three things to establish suspicion: proximity, access to the weapon, and motive. We have two out of three. We know Tad's non-union."

  "Wait. Non-union? What does that have to do with anything?"

  "Some of the actors have been talking. Del hasn’t said anything to you?"

  "About what?"

  "I guess she hasn’t. There was talk about getting rid of the non-union employees of the theater. I don’t know what authorities are on their case, but apparently Sally Kane had her hand in it. Did you know she worked a day job in the county representative's office? She'd just recently drafted a memo regarding the theater hiring non-union members. Tad, as we found out, is non-union."

  "He's the choreographer."

  "Right, and he probably wouldn’t have been if Sally had gotten her way. You're forgetting what a big deal this is, Allie. The big Broadway producer was coming. This is the thing you see in movies where everyone in the small town has a chance to make it to Broadway. Once in a lifetime fairytale, you understand? You don’t think a dream like that put in jeopardy is enough for an artist to kill?"

  Allie was spe
echless. She needed to gather her thoughts. "I can’t believe this," was all she could say.

  "I know."

  "No, I really can’t believe what I'm hearing."

  "Allie—"

  "You're telling me Tad is a murderer."

  "Now hold on."

  "Hold on? Tad's not a murderer. I can tell you that."

  "He's left-handed."

  Allie breathed heavily. "He didn’t do it."

  "He had access to the weapon. He had proximity to the victim. He had motive. He's left-handed."

  "Sergeant, I'm leaving," she said with venom in her voice.

  "Allie—"

  "No, don’t Allie me. You've allowed Tomlin and his idiot theories to cloud your judgement. Are you forgetting who solved the last two big ones you guys had? Little Allie Griffin, that's who. The bored widow from the small town got the best of you. You know what I think? I think you're jealous of that fact. Anything I say, you’re going to contradict it. If I say hello now, will you say goodbye? I hope so. See you around, chum!"

  She got into her car, fuming. She started it up and drove away.

  Driving this late through a small town was a good activity to undertake in this state of mind. It would allow her time to brood. She took a turn onto the main highway that led out of town and started driving miles through nowhere. The moon raced ahead of her while thoughts and voices bounced around in her brain.

  Tad?

  Get a hold of yourself, she thought.

  She didn’t know when it happened, but somewhere in the middle of that drive, her heart rate decreased, her breathing became steady and slow, and her muscles relaxed, dropping her shoulders. Her neck ached from being stiff with anger and frustration for so long. However, the rest of her was somewhat at peace. She let her mind go. Here in this nowhere, where no one could see or hear her, where there was no one to judge, she gave logic free reign to consider the unthinkable.

  You're not falling for Frank, she told herself. You’re falling for Tad.

  Maybe Frank was right, she thought, a nasty coldness numbing her from the inside out.

  3.

  She huffed and puffed her way up the steep driveway toward the house where Jimmy Welles rented a room from a very sweet old woman.

  Jimmy Welles was one of a kind. A hacker not just by hobby, but also by virtue of his very soul. There seemed to be nothing that this twenty-year-old wasn't capable of when it came to all things electronic. Especially when it came to exploiting the security flaws of said electronics. Hackers are lock pickers by nature. Give them a lock, they have no choice but to try and open it. Allie often felt guilty about going to Jimmy when she needed to make use of his singular gifts. Here she was, aiding and abetting someone whom the FBI would gladly either throw in jail or recruit for their highest division of electronic security. Jimmy Welles would make a great supervillain, if it weren't for the fact that he lived with a very sweet old woman in a room littered with computer parts.

  And Jimmy was also a good soul. He hacked because he could. He wasn't malicious. And everything Allie asked him to do for her was always in the interest of bringing a killer to justice. And all the young, baby-faced man asked for in return was a home-cooked meal with the woman he harbored an undying love for: Allie Griffin.

  Never again, she'd told herself the last time she was here. Never again will I ask this nice kid if he can break federal laws for me. Never again.

  And here she was, knocking on the door.

  "Allie! So nice to see you," said Mrs. Needleman, Jimmy landlady.

  "Is Jimmy home?" Of course he was. His beaten-up Volkswagen beetle was in the driveway.

  "He's sleeping," Mrs. Needleman said. "He was up very late..." She poked her head out and looked around her property. Then she cupped her hand to her mouth and whispered, "...breaking in to my Medicare."

  "Oh my."

  "The check's late again," she whispered. "I just wanted to see what was wrong. Awful of me, I know."

  "Mrs. Needleman. Please stop talking about this. I can’t hear this."

  "I'm so sorry. And where are my manners? Come in, come in."

  She entered the home, which was cozy and antiquated and smelled like it.

  "I'll wake him up."

  "Tell him I'm really sorry."

  The old woman went upstairs and Allie heard her knocking on Jimmy's door. She heard faint, muffled mumbles in response.

  Mrs. Needleman hobbled back down the stairs. "He’ll be right down. I'm going to make him a fruit cup. Would you like one?"

  "No thank you."

  A minute later, there was Jimmy Welles, all stubbly and puffy-eyed, and wearing a raggy T-shirt with a picture of the Incredible Hulk peeling off it in dime-sized flakes. He wore ripped jeans stained with what looked like tomato sauce. He scratched at his belly, sending a few more Hulk flakes flurrying to the floor.

  "Hey," he said groggily. "What time is it?"

  "It's one o'clock," Allie said, unable to stifle a smile. "Maybe you can get up and join the living now."

  "Where is she?"

  "She's making you a fruit cup."

  "What do you need?"

  "A small favor again."

  Without hesitation, he said, "Follow me."

  Jimmy's room was an electronics geek's Mecca. Every part of every kind of device lay exploded across some part of the floor. Even his unkempt bed was sprinkled liberally with a few of such parts. Allie wondered how he could possibly sleep in that. Then she noticed the small piece of motherboard near his pillow, and the red impression from said piece across part of his cheek.

  "Oh, Jimmy," was all she could say.

  "Cut it out. What do you need?"

  "A guy was sent these weird phone calls. One a day at different times. All that was on the line was a tone. Each day a different tone. A sine wave? Is that what it's called?"

  "Sine wave."

  "Right."

  "Ok."

  "So?"

  "So what?" said Jimmy.

  "So I need to know how someone made those calls. Where they came from."

  Jimmy sighed wearily and walked over to his computer. With a jiggle of the mouse, the screen came to life.

  "I need more info."

  "We think the calls were automatic. Like what political candidates use. You know, pre-recorded."

  "Robo-calls."

  "That's it."

  "There's no mystery there. Anyone can set up a system to do that."

  "Can you figure out who was making these?"

  "Give me the number they were calling and a couple of the dates and times."

  She did as he asked, and he went to work, typing and punching furiously at the keyboard like a virtuoso pianist.

  "Ok," he said, dropping his hands into his lap. "Here's where they went." He pointed to the screen. "And here's where they came from."

  "What is that?"

  "That's the robo-call server IP. You want to know the exact location where it came from?" He typed for a couple of minutes more. "Burlington. Specifically...wait a minute. No way."

  "What? What is it?" She peered over his shoulder at the screen but couldn’t make heads or tails out of any of the gibberish she saw there.

  "I know this guy."

  "You do? Who is he?"

  "A fellow hacker. You think I'm bad? This guy's got no scruples whatsoever. And he isn’t that smart. He leaves trails everywhere he goes. He’ll get caught one day, no doubt."

  "Ok," said Allie, "so what does he have to do with my guy?"

  "Nothing. He's a hired gun. He does small jobs for people like this. He did some work for politicians in the last election. Fake robo-calls to the constituency of the opposition. He worked both sides of the ticket. I told you, no scruples."

  Allie patted the boy on the back. "Your kind."

  "Yeah, maybe. So are we done?"

  "Done? No. We need to find out who hired him."

  Without a word, Jimmy Welles typed quickly. A small window appeared onscreen. He typed a
few more strokes.

  "Jimmy, what are you doing?"

  "Finding out who hired him."

  "Yeah, but...are you doing what I think...?"

  "You know a better way?"

  Jimmy typed: Who hired you to do the robo calls to...

  What better way to find out than to just ask the guy? This is why Jimmy Welles was a genius. A real genius knows he doesn’t always have to use genius methods.

  The answer came back quickly: guy didnt say name. wanted proxy server.

  "Look at that," Jimmy said. "Doesn’t even use punctuation. What did I tell you? No scruples. Anyway, there's your answer."

  "What's a proxy server?"

  "I don’t feel like explaining it to you all day, so I'll just say that you can use it as a sort of disguise to make it look like your communications are coming from somewhere else. It's like using someone's mailbox."

  "Jimmy?"

  "Yes?"

  "You're a sexist, condescending piglet."

  "Thank you. Now about my dinner."

  "Hold on. Where did this person, your hacker friend's client, where did he want the calls to appear they were being made from?"

  "I'll ask."

  Jimmy typed. And a moment later the answer came: some chick in verdenier heres the ip...

  "One more thing," Allie said. "I have reason to believe there were supposed to have been eight calls in total. There were only six. Can you find out why they stopped?"

  Jimmy typed the question. The answer came: guy only want six calls.

  Jimmy typed, Thanks. By the way, maybe you should learn the proper rules of grammar.

  Jimmy's hacker friend returned with a suggestion to engage in an act that no normal human being is capable of performing.

  Jimmy laughed while he resumed typing furiously.

  "Here's the address. It belongs to Sally Kane. Who's that?"

  "You don’t need to know. So you’re telling me that Sally Kane had nothing to do with these calls whatsoever?"

  "I don’t know about whatsoever. But if you put two and two together, you can pretty much surmise that whoever got my friend to do this was doing it without this girl's knowledge. This guy wanted it to look like the calls were coming from her. But they weren't. They came from my friend, who was paid to do it by someone who refused to give his name."