Chapter Thirty-Four Harriet
Chapter Thirty-Four
Harriet
Nic and I drive back over the bridges connecting the island to mainland New Jersey. We haven’t spoken much since we left my mom’s.
He’s been so grumpy all day. I know he’s tired, but so am I, for fuck’s sake.
Plus, I drove three hours this morning, and here I am again, behind the wheel of my car.
I’m sure he’s disappointed that it wasn’t as easy as someone killed Patterson, therefore Sara’s innocent, but it feels a little like he’s taking it out on me.
The only sound is Google Maps, leading us through Pleasantville and into the empty parking lot of an office park.
I’ve never been here, and I’m startled to see how small it is, how squat and decrepit. George’s company in Manhattan was housed on seven floors of a giant, modern high-rise in Midtown. Working here was a real step down.
Or…maybe not. George wasn’t an idiot, but he was a snob. He’d never have worked in a place like this unless there was a reason. Maybe he learned up in NYC that it was better to fly under the radar.
“Don’t park here,” Nic says as I pull into the lot. “Park back out on the street.”
I stop. “What if we have to make a quick getaway?”
He heaves a sigh, and I bristle. “There are only two other cars in here, Harriet. If we park here, it’ll be obvious we’re inside.”
I’ve had about enough of his attitude. “To who exactly? You think someone’s going to see a parked car and immediately think, Wow, those people must be inside the building committing crimes?”
“I’m just saying—we need to be cautious.”
“Yeah. I get that, thanks.”
“Then you agree we should park on the street?”
“That’s not what I said.”
We glare at each other for a long moment. Too long a moment. Apparently, my body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re not interested in him anymore. Heat spreads through my insides, and my eyes dart to his mouth, the way his stubborn lower lip juts out.
It’s so juicy. I want to lean over and press my mouth against his. Take his lip between my teeth and gently bite it. Fuck him just one more time to get him out of my system.
Except I like him too much. I know I do. I wouldn’t be satisfied with just one more. I’d want two and three and four, and it doesn’t even matter because he doesn’t want me at all.
“What?” Nic says.
I’m still staring at his lips. I force myself to look up into his eyes. “Nothing. I was just thinking. About where to park. Like I said, what if someone catches us inside?”
“You said this wasn’t illegal because you have a key.”
“Yeah, I mean, it mostly isn’t, but we should still have an exit route. Just in case.”
He turns toward his window. “Fine. Have it your way.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling strangely deflated.
I park the car.
The lobby is small, dingy. There’s no front desk, no place for a receptionist to sit. Just a two-car elevator bank, gray threadbare carpeting, and a palm tree wilting in one corner.
It’s so small-time. George ran a multibillion-dollar real estate empire in Midtown Manhattan, and now…this?
Again, I wonder: Why?
A directory hanging by the entrance informs us George’s office is on the second floor. Nic strides ahead of me to the elevator call buttons, jabbing the arrow up.
The ride up is short, tense, my heart creeping up into my throat.
I have a key, sure, but I’m not an idiot. I know this isn’t really legal. If we find something big—evidence that proves corruption or ethical violations—I can’t just include it in my article without some serious legal tap dancing. But at least I’ll know what direction to take it from here.
It’s better than nothing.
This is our best option. There are too many loose ends, too many unanswered questions, and the clock is ticking. Sara’s getting transferred to Atlantic City county jail any day now, and that place is nothing like the jail on Logan Island.
We find the office halfway down the hall. There’s no sign, just the numbers 202 glued to the face of a door.
Inside, we find a small reception room with two leather chairs. A small coffee table. In the corner, another wilting palm.
“Where should we start?” Nic asks.
“Through there?” I point to another door on the far wall. “I assume that’s where we’ll find the offices.”
We start moving at the same time, and my forearm hits Nic square in the groin.
I jerk away. “Sorry,” I choke out. Of all the places to make contact. I want to sink down into the center of the earth.
An emotion flashes across his face, gone before I can place it. “It’s fine.” The words are tight with unleashed anger.
Is he mad? It was a mistake. “I didn’t mean—”
He interrupts. “After you.” He sweeps his hand toward the back of the room.
We find ourselves in a short, dark hallway with two doors off it.
“Their offices?” Nic asks.
“I assume so. Try the first one.”
I hold my breath as he twists the knob. George was so paranoid that it’s entirely possible he kept his office locked up tight.
When it turns, I let out a breath. He pushes the door open. The room is small, spare—just a couple of filing cabinets pressed up against the wall beneath a narrow window and a large L-shaped desk in its center. On it is a desktop computer.
“Jackpot.” I head to it.
“How long have they had this office?” Nic asks.
I settle into the desk chair. “About four years, I think. Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Where’s all the personal stuff? Pictures or whatever? I’ve never worked in an office, but I was under the impression that people usually decorated them?”
“Well, I can’t speak to Luke, but George wasn’t exactly known for his sentimentality.” I flick on the computer, and it whirrs to life.
“Whose computer is that?” Nic asks. “Whose office is this?”
“Actually, I’m not sure.” I open a drawer and rifle through it until I find an envelope with a name printed on its front. “George’s.”
“Are you in?” Nic walks over and peers over my shoulder. “Shit. A password?”
“Yeah. I should have known he’d have one. Same guy who changed the gate code to the beach weekly.” I study the keyboard, thinking. “I bet I can figure this out.”
Nic makes a skeptical noise that rankles me. “If you get it wrong too many times, you’ll get locked out.”
I swivel around. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have a better idea? Some hacking skills I’m not aware of? If so, I’m all ears. Most people have really basic passwords, like…”
I type my mother’s name and birthday and press Enter. The box on the screen shudders.
No, that makes sense. It’s like I just told Nic—George wasn’t the sentimental type. His password won’t be something personal.
“You only have four attempts left,” Nic points out unhelpfully.
“Yeah. I can read, thanks.”
He huffs a sigh.
I try again. George’s old company name.
No.
“Three more.”
The name of his old company plus—according to Google—the year he founded it.
“Two.”
I whirl toward him, glaring. “Do you think that’s helpful?”
“Just saying,” he mutters. He wanders over to the window, peering through its metal blinds. He’s driving me bananas.
“Relax, okay? Even if we do get locked out, it’s not for forever. Just an hour or two. We can do something else while we wait.”
He turns, crossing his arms. “Yeah. You would say that.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he mutters as he walks over to the door. Is he seriously leaving?
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To the other room. We don’t have all fucking day, you know.” He disappears into the hallway before I can respond.
God, he’s being such a dick. “Whatever,” I mutter.
I look back at the box on the screen. It really isn’t the end of the world if I get locked out for a bit. Nic is just stressed and not thinking clearly.
I try one more combination. His company name plus his birthday.
The box disappears, and the desktop unfolds on the screen. Oh my god. I did it. For someone allegedly so concerned with security, that was pretty fucking easy, but I guess it speaks to what an egomaniac the guy was.
I should go tell Nic we’re in. But he’s being so annoying; I don’t really want to deal with him right now. Let him go through Luke’s stuff. I’ll handle this, and then we can talk.
I turn back to the computer, navigate over to the email icon, and start scrolling down George’s inbox.
There’s lots of back-and-forth between him and the other members of the town council—lots of back-and-forth between him and Patterson without anyone else weighing in.
I skim a few from Mayor DiPetrio talking about the new zoning board chair, but nothing jumps out at me as blatantly illegal. Maybe a little bit of collusion?
I grab my phone, snap a couple photos to send to Maggie, then type Luke Dalio into the search bar.
We need to figure out if what Matthew said was true. Were George and Luke really having issues? Or was George just venting to a stranger after a few too many cocktails? If they were, I need evidence. Evidence that’s strong enough to convince the police that Luke had motive to kill him.
Hundreds of results pop up on the screen. A lot of the exchanges are short. Terse, even.
I skim through exchange after exchange about the motel property.
Approximately one million emails later, I’m starting to lose hope. Is Sara doomed? Should I get a job working at the local supermarket instead of pretending that I’ll ever work in media again?
Nic hasn’t reappeared. I wonder if he’s having better luck.
I find him in the office next door, crouched in front of an open filing cabinet, surrounded by stacks of folders.
“What are you doing?”
His head jerks up. “Jesus. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry.”
He rubs his fist against his temple. “It’s fine. I was just reading through all this crap. Did you get into the computer?”
“Yeah. I figured out the password. GGCapitalGroup10301975. His company name plus his birthday. No thanks to you.”
He pulls himself up to his feet and sets the paper he’s holding down on the desk, his eyes flashing. “I just didn’t want us to get locked out. That would set us back hours. Sara’s getting transferred this week. Not that you care.”