Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

SO LONG, HOODEENEE36

Bruce was certain that in his forty-seven years he had never felt as though he was being watched or followed or observed, especially by people whose interests he did not share. He left the store, something he did at least four times a day, and stepped onto the sidewalk along Main. He could almost feel the lasers of someone’s surveillance locking in on his back. He stood straighter, walked with a purpose, tried his damnedest not to cut his eyes in all directions, and after fifty yards called himself an idiot for being so paranoid. What could anyone gain by watching Bruce Cable walk down Main Street in Santa Rosa, Florida?

He ducked into his favorite wine bar and ordered a glass of rosé. He sat in his favorite corner with his back to the door and studied his notes. Why would “he” mention Noelle? Was it a way of threatening Bruce? It certainly felt like a threat. Was “he” friend or enemy? No one outside Bruce’s circle knew about the wedding, right? How would “he” know to be at the beach at the right moment? Bruce had not mentioned the ceremony to anyone in an email or text. And how could “he” get close enough to Noelle to know she was “very pretty”? Bruce had been occupied with his bride and the party at hand, and had not bothered to glance around at the beachcombers. There were always people on the beach, but not many on a cool late afternoon in mid-March. He didn’t remember seeing anyone.

If they were listening to his phone calls and reading his emails, for how long had they been at it? He recalled when he first contacted Elaine Shelby, he did so by phone. She immediately warned him against using emails. He then flew to Washington and met Lindsey Wheat. Was it possible that “they” knew he had hired a private security firm to find Nelson’s killers? It seemed doubtful, but then with technology what was not possible?

He puzzled and pondered and took pages of notes, none of them revealing or helpful. He ordered another glass of rosé, and the second one proved as ineffective as the first.

9.

With Nick away at school, Bruce’s favorite employee was Jade, a thirty-year-old part-timer with two college degrees and two toddlers at home. She was still looking for a career but in the meantime thoroughly enjoyed the flexible hours Bruce offered. She was a tech whiz, addicted to social media, knew the hottest and latest apps, and was contemplating a graduate degree in computer science. Without getting too specific, Bruce asked her to walk him through the scenario of corresponding through anonymous chat rooms. He fibbed and said such activity was a subplot in Nelson’s novel and he wanted it to be accurate. He knew it was quite unlikely Jade would ever read it.

She took a seat in his office and said, “BullettBeep is just another secret chat room, based in Bulgaria. Most are in Eastern Europe because privacy laws are tighter there. Crazy Ghost is based in Hungary. I found three dozen of these sites in half an hour. They’re legit, for a fee. Most are around twenty bucks for thirty days.”

“Can they be hacked?” Bruce asked.

“In my opinion, it would be very difficult for someone stalking you to read your messages on one of these sites.”

“Why not? Let’s assume I’ve been hacked as of now and they’re reading my mail. When I log in and go to BullettBeep or whatever, they’re watching, right?”

“To a point. Once you pay up and become a ‘member,’ for lack of a better term, your messages are instantly encrypted and protected. They have to be or these sites couldn’t work. They have to guarantee complete anonymity.”

“And they’re popular?”

“Who knows? It’s all secret. I mean, I never use them and I don’t know anybody who does, but then I’m not having an affair or selling arms or doing whatever Nelson was up to in his novels.”

“Thanks.”

She left and Bruce waited, and waited. At exactly 3:01, he went to BullettBeep, followed instructions, paid with a credit card (which was also being watched, he presumed), and said hello as 88DogMan. He was already tired of the silly names.

Hello HooDeeNee36. I’m here.

Good afternoon. How’s married life?

The same. Why did you mention my wife? I don’t like that.

I shouldn’t have. Sorry.

Friend or foe? I’m not sure.

Brittany was murdered. Would the enemy tell you this?

Yes, if the enemy was trying to scare the hell out of me.

You need to be scared. So am I. May I suggest a destination for the honeymoon?

Oh go ahead.

New York City. I’m there on business next week. We really should meet face to face. There is so much to cover.

And what will we cover? And where is this going? What’s the endgame?

You want Nelson’s killer?

Only if no one else gets hurt, including me. I can walk away right now.

Don’t do that. They will not walk away. They don’t want his book published.

They being Grattin, right?

There was a long pause as he waited and gawked at the screen. He took a deep breath and tapped his fingers beside the keyboard. Finally,

I think you just gave me a heart attack.

Sorry, didn’t mean to. Look, I know some things.

Obviously.

And I’m tired of these little chat rooms and silly names. Are we going to meet and have a serious discussion?

New York, next week, honeymoon. I’ll be there on business.

Any particular hotel?

The Lowell, on 63rd. I’ll find you.

10.

After two days and nights at the Lowell with no contact, Bruce was privately bitching about Manhattan hotel prices and thinking of leaving. To make matters worse, Noelle was shopping out of boredom. Whatever the reason, the prices were high and the boxes were piling up. Bruce had lunch with Nelson’s editor, and he had drinks with an agent, and he hung out in a couple of his favorite bookstores, but he was tired of the city. On the third day, Noelle was having tea in the hotel bar when an attractive brunette stopped at her table and said, “You’re Noelle, right?”

The “i” was flat, as in North Florida.

“I am.”

She handed over a small envelope, yellow. “Please give this to Bruce.” And she was gone.

Bruce read the note: Meet me in the second floor bar of the Peninsula Hotel on 55th at 3:30 p.m. I’ll be alone.

They arrived early and the bar was empty, and dark. Noelle took a table close to the counter, ordered a seltzer, and began reading a newsmagazine. Bruce went to the rear with his back to the mirrors and a full view of the bar. At 3:30, the same brunette sauntered in like a fashion model, noticed the couple was not together, and walked to Bruce’s table and sat down. Without offering a hand, she said, “I’m Danielle.”

“Also known as Dane?” Bruce asked calmly, and she couldn’t conceal the shock. She exhaled as her shoulders dropped and all pretense of being cool and in charge vanished. She flashed a fake smile and glanced around. Perfect teeth, high cheekbones, lovely brown eyes, a bit too much padding in the forehead, but all in all one good-looking woman. Tall, slender, decked out in designer stuff. Very classy.

“How’d you know?”

“A long story, one of many. I’m Bruce. We weren’t expecting a woman.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Look, I’d feel better if we had more privacy. I have a room on the fourth floor.”

“I’m not going to your room, because I’m not sure what I’d find there.”

“You’ll find nothing.”

“If you say so. Noelle and I are happy to invite you to a room we have on the sixth floor.”

“Very well.”

They rode the elevator with three strangers so not a word was spoken. Once safely inside the room, they managed to relax as they sat around a small coffee table. With a flair, Bruce began with “Well, I’m Bruce Cable, small-town bookseller from Camino Island, Florida. This is my wife, Noelle, peerless importer of antiques from the South of France. And you are?”