High Tech Toys
MORGAN
Morgan once again found herself in the passenger seat of Patrick’s SUV.
Like before, the ride was smooth and comfortable, even on the less-than-pristine back roads.
It was another beautiful blue-sky day, the trees awash in brilliant colors, the grass and groundcover still vibrantly green in some areas.
Patrick drove with the quiet confidence of a man who knew the roads like the back of his hand, which he probably did. That was how he did most things, she’d wager. In fact, the only time she’d seen him slightly ruffled was when he’d appeared in the doorway of the guestroom and saw her packing.
Had he really been that concerned because she hadn’t answered his texts?
And why, like Frank waiting up for her, did that feel so… nice?
Was it simply because she wasn’t used to anyone paying close enough attention to notice—or care? She lived alone. Worked odd hours. Came and went as she pleased. No one worried if she didn’t answer a call or a text right away. Her mother got annoyed, sure, but that wasn’t quite the same thing.
Yet Patrick Callaghan—a man she barely knew—had driven all the way out to Old Miller Road because she hadn’t responded to his texts in a timely manner, and he had looked genuinely relieved to see her.
She added caring to attractive, intelligent, and charming on her Patrick Callaghan Attribute List.
He was different from anyone she’d ever met, and, she was loath to admit, intriguing enough that she hadn’t been able to push him completely into the background.
It was weird. He seemed so… familiar. Not familiar like she’d seen him before, but familiar like she knew him somehow. The way he spoke. The cadence of his words. How his mind worked.
She thought about DeepTrace's posts. The structure of them. The methodology. The specific way the questions were framed.
She thought about Patrick’s vague ‘I know people who know people.’
She thought about the way he’d so cleverly sidestepped her baited questions in the car outside the municipal building.
“You're DeepTrace,” she said. Firmly. Conclusively.
No shock. No confusion. Just a slight smile and a brief sideways glance and an equally conclusive, “And you're GraveDigger.”
Well.
“How did you figure it out?” she said.
“The way you talked about the scene at the IHOP. The questions you asked.” He paused. “GraveDigger posted almost the same things word for word the next morning.”
Damn it, he was right. Though in her defense, what were the chances that the cute bartender and the clever, insightful DeepTrace were one and the same?
Her mind replayed their last few encounters, ending with the most recent. “And my Halcyon slip confirmed it.”
“That too.”
Morgan looked at him. “I’ve been reading your work for years. You’re good.”
Another brief smile. “So are you.”
She looked back at the road. Two people in the same online forum, working the same case, in the same small town. Coincidence? Or something more than that? What had Patrick said? Something about believing in fate but not coincidence?
Before she went too far down that path, she said, “You know, if we'd compared notes sooner, we'd have gotten further on this case faster.”
His answer was a soft laugh.
Patrick reached out and tapped the dash screen. A moment later, a deep, resonant voice came through the speakers.
“What’s up?”
“I’m on my way,” Patrick said. “Morgan’s with me.”
A brief pause. “So I should put pants on then?”
“Definitely.”
A sigh. “All right.”
“See you in ten.”
He disconnected the call and glanced at her. “My dad,” Patrick said. “For the record, he usually does wear pants.”
Morgan didn’t want to smile, but her lips quirked anyway. “So that was just for my benefit?”
“No doubt.”
Her mother liked to embarrass her too, but it typically took a different course and was far less playful.
“How is he going to help us? Does he have a lab or something?”
“Technically, my uncle Mick does. But my dad does have some toys that will be useful.”
“What kind of toys?”
“High tech ones.”
She wasn't sure what to do with that. “Okay.”
“I just—I want you to be prepared.”
“Okay,” she said again, wondering why Patrick felt the need to forewarn her.
The stone cottage at the end of the drive was not what she'd expected. Modest exterior, stone darkened with age and weather, nestled into the mountain. You could drive past the entrance twice without noticing it, which she suspected was intentional.
The door opened before they reached it.
The man in the doorway had Patrick's dark hair and Patrick's blue eyes, and was, indeed, wearing pants. He had the same crooked half-grin too, and Morgan wondered vaguely if Patrick’s mother had been as involuntarily captivated by it as she was with Patrick’s.
“Morgan, this is my dad, Ian Callaghan,” Patrick said by way of introduction.
“Morgan,” Ian said, warmly, standing aside to let them in.
“Mr. Callaghan,” she greeted.
“Come in,” Ian said, “and tell me what you need.”
“An ID,” Patrick said bluntly.
“Okay. What do you have?”
“Pictures, fingerprints, and a hair sample.”
“Picture and fingerprints, no problem. I can drop the hair off at Mick’s for DNA analysis later.”
Before Morgan could think too much about how Patrick’s dad was going to process the samples, the gentle touch of Patrick’s hand on her lower back momentarily cleared her mental board. When he removed it a few seconds later, they were already halfway through the living area.
The original stone was still visible in places, as were the exposed beams, but the additions were significant. The overall aesthetic was cozy and warm, a mix of stone and earthy colors, a massive fireplace, and floor to ceiling windows with a fantastic view.
The kitchen, however, was clearly the centerpiece of the home. Taking up the entire back half, it had professional grade equipment, gleaming commercial appliances. It was the setup of someone who took food preparation seriously.
“Your mom likes to cook, huh?” Morgan commented quietly.
Ian chuckled, and Patrick said, “Yeah, you could say that.”
Ian moved through the kitchen toward the back of the house. “This way.”
He paused outside a closed door and shared a look with Patrick, who nodded.
He opened the door.
Morgan looked inside and promptly forgot to breathe.
Screens covered one wall—multiple feeds running simultaneously, the kind of real-time data infrastructure she associated with law enforcement operations centers, not private residences.
The rest of the room was packed with equipment.
Some she recognized, some she didn't. All of it was arranged with the organization of someone who used it regularly and knew what they were doing.
High-tech toys, indeed.
“Go on in,” Ian said, with quiet amusement.
She walked in slowly, finding it hard to decide what to look at first. “This is better equipped than my office.”
“Better equipped than most offices,” Ian said, with only a tiny bit of charming arrogance.
She turned to look at him. He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, comfortable, and she knew he did not show this room to people casually. She was being awarded a trust extended without condition, which was in some ways harder to receive than one she’d earned.
Clearly, Ian Callaghan was no more a simple bartender than his son was.
“All right,” Ian said, dropping into an ergonomic chair that looked like it belonged on the space shuttle. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Patrick produced the prints and hair Morgan had handed him in the pub parking lot. Ian took them without ceremony, setting them on the processing station with the practiced movement of someone who had done this before, in situations more complicated than this one.
“Images?”
Patrick nodded to Morgan, who pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped the screen before handing it to Ian.
Ian examined the pictures. “Nice.” He laid the phone face down on a scanner, repeating the process for each image captured, then handed the phone back to her.
The whole thing took less than a minute.
“How long?” Patrick asked.
“Depends on how good this guy is—or was, I guess. Anywhere from a few minutes to a day or two. I’ll start local and expand the search until we get a hit. The prints, much faster, especially if he’s in any official database. We’ll corroborate what comes up with whatever Mick can pull from the hair.”
Morgan looked at the equipment one more time. At the screens. At the casual efficiency of what would be, to most people, a really big ask.
She was beginning to understand why Frank had said the Callaghans were good men to have on your side, even if she didn’t understand the specifics behind it. For one of the first times in her life, Morgan felt like the least equipped person in the room.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No thanks necessary,” Ian said with a warm, infectious grin, and once again, Morgan felt like she was missing something important. “Glad to help.”
Patrick’s hand on her lower back guided her gently out of the office. She slowed to take in the framed photos she hadn’t taken time to examine on the way in.
Family, arranged in no particular order. Many pictures of Patrick at various ages. His father and a stunning woman laughing at something off-camera. And a girl with dark hair warmed by red and bronze hues and the same vivid blue eyes as Ian and Patrick. The result was both stunning and striking.
“Hey, big brother. I didn’t know you were stopping by today.”
Morgan turned at the velvety feminine voice. The woman from the photos was at the end of the hallway with a mug in her hand, looking both pleased and intrigued.
“Morgan, this is my sister Kate. Kate, Morgan Sullivan.”
Her smile was both open and friendly. “Hi Morgan.”
“Hi.”
“Are you staying for lunch?” Kate asked.
“No, just dropping a few things off for Dad.”
“Uh-huh.” Patrick and Kate exchanged a look, one that asked and answered questions in the silent language shared between siblings. Then Kate turned to Morgan, her smile sincere. “It's really nice to meet you, Morgan.”
“You too.”
Kate took her mug back upstairs, leaving Morgan and Patrick alone. This, Morgan thought, was what a family should be. Warm, comfortable, genuinely fond of one another.
Patrick’s fingers flexed. “Ready?”
“Sure.”
They stepped outside, back into the beautiful day.
“Would you like to grab something for lunch?” Patrick asked as he opened the passenger door for her.
Her first instinct was to say no, because she always said no. But another part of her wanted to know more about Patrick Callaghan and his family.
“I’d like that.”
His eyes widened slightly as if surprised. “Great. Are you craving anything in particular?”
She blinked, pushing back sudden images that had no place in this conversation.
“Not really. You know the area. Why don’t you pick something?”
“A test,” he said with a grin. “I’m up for the challenge. Just remember, you left it up to me.”
“Noted.”
A short while later, they were seated in a café just off the main street that specialized in healthy, clean fare. It seemed to be a popular place with the locals, which was the mark of a good business anywhere.
“Is this okay?” he asked as she perused the menu, finding at least half a dozen things she wanted to try.
“It’s perfect.”
They placed their orders, then sat back. Patrick was the first to speak.
“Go ahead. Ask. I can see the questions burning in your eyes.”
Could he read her so easily?
“What does your father do?” Morgan said, after a while.
Patrick smiled, that crooked, mischievous one that held secrets and mysteries she wanted to explore. “He's a bartender.”
“Bartenders don't typically have satellite feeds and NSA level equipment in their homes.”
He shrugged. “I told you. He likes tech.”
She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Is he… does he do covert work?” she asked, not knowing what the proper protocol was for asking someone if their father was an operative.
“He was a Navy SEAL. All of my uncles were. And my grandfather,” he said carefully, studying her closely.
“And now?”
“Now, he’s a bartender.”
“Like you.”
“Yes.”
It appeared his trust only extended so far. Perhaps he was waiting to see what she did with it before he revealed more. Or perhaps, this was all she would get. That last thought was disappointing.
She sipped her iced tea, taking a moment to appreciate how good it was. “That's where you get it from, isn’t it?” she asked. “Your digital skills. The pattern recognition. Your ability to ferret out information.”
Patrick glanced at her. The corner of his mouth moved. “Some of it.”
She looked out the window. The blue sky was darkening, turning into more of a slate that hinted at a potential storm.
She thought about the half-packed bag on the floor of the guest room at Frank’s place, reevaluating her earlier plan of leaving Pine Ridge and heading back to Philly in search of answers.
She might discover more if she stayed.
She looked across the table at Patrick, studying her with those blue eyes.
A lot more.