Game On: Tempting Twenty-Eight (Stephanie Plum #28)(59)

“Oswald is taking responsibility. He wants Charlotte and Melvin.”

I read him the message.

“This is becoming a suicide mission for Oswald,” Ranger said. “There are places in Europe and Asia where hackers are protected. It’s more difficult for a hacker to hide here, and Oswald’s obsession with the Baked Potatoes is making him vulnerable. He’s making stupid moves. Attacking the power grid will bring the feds in with resources we wouldn’t ordinarily be able to access. From what we’ve been able to see, this is a local outage, but it’s still going to get federal attention.”

I ended the call with Ranger, the lights blinked on, and Connie’s computer came to life.

“It’s amazing that Oswald can do this,” Connie said. “I have a hard time managing the apps on my iPad.”

Diesel strolled in. “Oswald is brilliant but he’s a complete wack job.”

“Did you get his message?” I asked.

“Yes. He’s being a real jerk. He’s making my job impossible. Now I’m going to have to contend with the government. Melvin treated everyone to a porno movie, and by the way he chose a classic. When he was caught, it was brushed off as a prank. Oswald proved he can cut the electricity to half of Trenton. No one’s going to laugh it off.”

“We have twenty-four hours before he pulls the plug again,” I said.

“He’s not living in his car like Charlotte was doing. He’s holed up somewhere with good internet. He probably has multiple computers and a backpack filled with hacking tools,” Diesel said. “I have people watching the train station and hanging out on street corners in town. Oswald is like the invisible lunatic.”

“I know someplace in town that has good internet,” I said. “And the owner isn’t in residence. Suppose Oswald didn’t just happen along when Lula and I were getting clothes for Charlotte. Suppose he’s been living there?”

“Alongside the cop who took him down?” Diesel asked. “I like it. Let’s go for a ride.”

Diesel had the fun car, but I had the crappy stealth car, so I drove. I did a drive-around in Charlotte’s neighborhood, looking for the Porsche or a blue sedan. We saw four blue sedans. No Porsche. I drove past the front of the townhouse, and I cruised down the back alley. The cop car wasn’t parked on the street and there was no activity. No one walking. No dogs barking. No street traffic. It was almost noon and the neighborhood felt deserted. Everyone was at work, I thought.

I parked on the cross street, and we walked down the alley to Charlotte’s house. I used her key to let us in and we stood in the kitchen for a couple of beats, listening.

“Wait in the hall where you can see both doors and I’ll clear the house,” Diesel said.

I watched him go up the stairs and listened while he went room by room. He came down and walked through the downstairs.

“He’s not here,” he said. “No clothes, no trash, no toilet seat left up.”

I went to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. I found the usual condiments plus a takeout box with half a stale sandwich, an expired strawberry yogurt, and two bottles of Russian River Pliny the Elder beer.

Diesel looked over my shoulder. “The beer has Oswald written all over it.”

I called Charlotte and asked her if she left half a sandwich, a strawberry yogurt, and two bottles of beer in her fridge. The answer was no.

“He might have been here,” I said to Diesel, “but I think he vacated after he was shot. I don’t see any Band-Aids in the trash. No half-used first aid cream lying around.”

“Did the police search this place?”

“Not while I was there, and I made sure the door was locked before I left. There wasn’t any reason for them to search inside the house.”

“I can’t see him moving into Melvin’s loft,” Diesel said. “He’d be noticed. He couldn’t hide his car and he’d be trapped in there. One door in and one door out.”

“I suspect Gerard Gouge’s apartment is unoccupied, but it was a major crime scene. His neighbors would notice someone living there.”

“Let’s look at it anyway.”



* * *




It was easy to find Gouge’s apartment. It was the one with the yellow crime scene tape still tacked across the door.

“Do your thing,” Diesel said to me. “Knock on some doors and see if anyone’s seen Oswald.”

I pulled his photo out of my messenger bag. “He looks different without the ponytail,” I said. “Are you coming with me?”

“No. This is a garden apartment, and Gouge had a ground floor unit. I want to see what’s going on in the back. I’m sure there’s a back door.”

Gouge had the middle unit. There were three apartments on both sides of him. No one answered in the first two. An older woman answered in the end unit. I introduced myself and told her I was bond enforcement and looking for a man who might have been associated with Gerard Gouge. I showed her the photo; she looked at it and shook her head.

“Sorry, I haven’t seen him,” she said. “There were a lot of people here in the beginning, though. It would have been easy to miss him in the crowd.”

I walked back past Gouge’s apartment and rang his next-door neighbors’ bell. I heard a dog barking, but no one came to the door. I did an involuntary shudder at the thought that this might be the tongue muncher. I moved on to the next house and a young woman answered with a baby in her arms. I introduced myself and she invited me in.