Joseph Finder - Guilty Minds

After a minute, I rang again, and I waited some more.

My plan, if she answered her door, was to tell her I was a courier with a package that required her signature. An old trick that usually worked. That would likely bring her downstairs, out of her apartment.

But after five minutes of waiting, I began to believe that she wasn’t at home, and I started mulling over my options.

Since I had her mobile phone number, there was an array of trickery at my disposal. More if I wanted to bring in Dorothy, but she was probably on a plane by now.

There was an app on my iPhone — the kid at the Apple Store had “restored” to my new phone everything that had been on the stolen one, which I’d deactivated — that would enable me to “spoof” a number. That meant that when I called someone who had caller ID — and on cell phones, everyone does — they’d see that the call was coming from whichever number I chose.

I could call or text her from the phone number belonging to Mandy Seeger, the Slander Sheet reporter. That number was on the note she’d sent to the Supreme Court’s public affairs office. It was a fair assumption that the reporter had been in close touch with Kayla over the past few weeks or so. They might have texted each other. A text from Mandy Seeger asking her to meet somewhere might bring her in from wherever she was.

But that trick would only work so far. The moment she texted the reporter back and reached the real person, the ruse would be over. What are you talking about? I didn’t ask you to meet! Mandy would reply.

So... there was a variation on that trick that might work a little better.

Another app on my iPhone called Burner would give me a temporary phone number in almost any area code I chose (except, for some reason, New York’s 212 area code) that I could use to call or text her. She could call or text me back on the same number and reach me without ever seeing my real phone number, which had a 617 area code, for Boston. I needed a number with a Washington area code.

I still liked the idea of pretending to be the journalist. Kayla probably had a relationship of trust with her, reporter and source. If Mandy asked to meet, she was likely to agree to it. If that didn’t work, I’d try something else.

I left the lobby and returned to the car. Then I took out my phone and fired up Burner. I chose the area code for Washington, 202, and texted Kayla’s phone:

Kayla, it’s Mandy on a new phone. We have to meet.

Then I waited.

More than a minute.

Then a text came back:

When?

Relieved — it had worked — I texted back:

Now. 30 min.

A pause, shorter this time, then:

OK, where?

I thought a moment. As soon as she saw me, she’d figure out that I had impersonated the reporter from Slander Sheet. I’d have to talk fast or do something to convince her I wasn’t a danger. That was best attempted in some public space.

I texted her the name and address of a Starbucks I’d passed not too far from her apartment building.

OK, she replied. 30.

Meaning she’d be there in half an hour.

I got to the Starbucks ten minutes later and found a table with sightlines to both entrances. I sipped a black coffee. The table wobbled. I looked around to see if she’d arrived early, but I didn’t see anyone who resembled her. Just the usual assortment of Starbucks customers. A young intern in a rumpled white button-down shirt placing an order for eleven beverages including a banana chocolate Vivanno, whatever that was. A couple of hipsters. A businessman in a suit and tie looking at an iPad, probably between appointments. A guy and a girl, college-student age, chatting awkwardly, maybe on a date.

After I’d been sitting for fifteen minutes, a petite blond woman entered. She was wearing heavy black-framed glasses, an oversized sweatshirt, and flip-flops. The sweatshirt said CORNELIUS COLLEGE in red block letters. She was small, vulnerable-looking. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She scanned the interior, back and forth.

She looked frightened. That’s what grabbed my attention most of all. What was she afraid of?

Finally she sat down at a table and took out her phone. She glanced at it, looked around some more. I got up and approached her table. It was crowded enough in the coffeehouse that it didn’t necessarily seem creepy when I said, “Can I join you?”

She looked up at me, scrunched her eyes. “Sorry, I’m meeting a friend.”

I nodded. “Mandy asked me here.”

“Who are you?” she said with suspicion.

I stuck out my hand. “Kayla,” I said, “I’m Nick Heller.”

What happened to Mandy?” she said. She was wearing no makeup and was young enough that she looked beautiful without it. Her skin was nearly translucent. I noticed purplish circles, like bruises, under her gray-blue eyes. Her eyes were pretty, but they were red-rimmed.

“It’s just me,” I said.

“I don’t get it. Who are you? Besides Nick whoever? I mean, a lawyer, a reporter, what?” She had a fairly thick southern accent.

“I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired by Slander Sheet to verify your story.”

She kept her handbag on her lap. It was a Chanel. I wasn’t sure, but I had a feeling by the way she clutched it that it might not be counterfeit. “An investigator?” She narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“They’re really going out on a limb on this story, so they want to make sure it’s solid.” I was lying, sure, but I justified it to myself on the grounds that she was, too. “They want to make sure they don’t get stuck with a bad story the way Rolling Stone magazine was, with that UVA story.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not important.”

She looked around the coffee shop. “So Mandy’s not coming?”

“Right.” She seemed anxious.

I’d known a few call girls, and I recognized the basic profile. They tend to be materialistic. They like their Chanel bags and their Jimmy Choos. They like to dress well because they know they look good. Call girls and escorts, unlike ordinary prostitutes, have a certain self-regard. Men pay good money to be with them, and not just for sex. It’s like having a mistress without the inevitable obligations. From the girls’ standpoint, they go to nice restaurants and black tie events and get to see a life they’d otherwise never see. In some ways it’s not a bad gig.

“And how do I know you’re for real?” she demanded.

“Here’s my business card.” That didn’t answer her question, but she took the card and glanced at it quickly. I’d written my cell number on it.

“Are you even licensed? I want to see your license.”

I was impressed. You’d be surprised at how few people ask to see my license. I took out my wallet and removed my Commonwealth of Massachusetts private investigator license. She glanced at it.

“That doesn’t do you any good. That’s a Massachusetts license. You have to be licensed in every state you work in, and we’re not in Massachusetts.”

I couldn’t help smiling. Smart girl. She was right. I fished around in my wallet and found my DC license, which I’d kept up to date since my days of working in the district. The picture showed a younger Nick Heller. Also a less jaded one. Back when I started, I didn’t know much about how the world worked. I’d learned a lot since then.

I handed it to her. She looked at it, shook her head. “We’re in Virginia. Not DC.”

I didn’t have that one with me, though I had a Virginia license, and a Maryland one, somewhere back in Boston.

“Kayla, I need to ask you a few questions about the chief justice.”

“I already told Mandy everything.”